Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
Wanting to Stay in My Homeland, But Also Wanting to Go Home
By Christine Heimann
I was born in Seoul, South Korea to a single mother. The information I received about my first mother and first six months of my life were narrowed down to 2.5 pages. For many years, that country seemed like such a far-off place, with no obtainable memories as I had left when I was only an infant.
I would look at the few photos my parents had received of me from the adoption agency at the time of my adoption and try to imagine what was behind the photos—to make a connection to Korea. What I knew about the country came from books and the local Korean restaurant where my family and I celebrated my “arrival day” every year.
But the year I turned 16, sweet sixteen, I ventured with my mom and dad to Korea. After my trip, people often asked what it was like to return to my homeland when I was sixteen years old.
We ventured with our tour group, visited palaces and temples, and ate kimchi and Korean food every day; though, we could just call it “food” since we were in Korea, because calling it “Korean food” seemed obvious.
Looking back, I felt numb through many of the experiences, because I hadn’t imagined what it would be like to wander the streets of Seoul—my birth city. Of course, I do remember feeling some excitement—shopping, eating food, etc. These are some activities teenagers always look forward to.
However, it wasn’t until I visited a Baby’s Home—where children who had been relinquished by their birth parents and wait to be adopted or placed with a foster family that I remember feeling a deep pain.
I was once one of those children. Seeing room after room, bassinet after bassinet, filled with small infants —so many crying, some with a bottle propped up on a blanket — I think reality finally caught up to me on that day, that I was in my homeland. I was once in one of those little bassinets; crying, with no one to hold the bottle, no one to comfort me when I was crying.
I made eye contact with a three-month-old who was older than the other newborns. Her spikey hair matched the style of mine when I was that age. “Hee-mang” was her name—meaning hope. The social worker told me she was given this name in the hopes she would have a bright future.
The social worker asked if I wanted to hold Hee-mang. As an awkward 16-year-old, who had never held a baby, I was a bit hesitant. However, I did for a few minutes. And in those three minutes, I wished for Hee-mang to have a happy life. To be strong and grow up to be proud of where she came from. To be loved. To have a bright future.
The rest of the tour was a blur and quickly it was the end.
Our tour group was chosen to escort two little boys to their adoptive families in Minnesota (at the time of my trip, this was still permitted). As I watched the little boys and their foster mothers say goodbye, the emotions of the finality of my time in Korea—from when I was a baby, all the way till my 16-year-old self, came rushing to the surface.
Again, I realized that this had once been me. I was once one of these little babies, having to say goodbye to the only caregiver they knew. Saying goodbye to their homeland and into the unknown of not knowing when they would ever return.
I cried. I grieved for Hee-mang. I cried for the little boys. I cried for myself. I cried for all adoptees. So many of us would not remember the events in our homeland leading up to our adoptions.
While my first trip to Korea was a blur, I deeply grieved returning to Minnesota, my home. Minnesota was and is my home and it always will be. After returning home from my first trip to Korea, I panicked and grew physically sick for several weeks.
When was I going to return to my other home? I was homesick for Korea. I longed to be in Korea. However, as I continued to long for Korea, I realized I could never truly belong.
Since my first trip to Korea, I have returned to Korea several times, supporting other adoptees and their families make the first trip back to their homeland.
As I’ve walked through the streets of Seoul, I do feel as though I “fit in” instead of being the only Asian face in the crowd. My parents have said that on our first trip to Korea, they saw I was less tense—that my body language was more relaxed, while I was in Korea.
I do admit that I am excited to think about being able to fit in—especially as acts of racism towards Asian Americans increased because of the Coronavirus. In Korea, I don’t have to worry about someone yelling “chink” or “Hey, why did you order a Corona (beer)? Don’t you already have it?”
However, whenever I think of Korea, I do think of the imposter syndrome that is always present. Yes, I “fit in,” but I still feel as though I stand out. The way I walk, the way I dress, the way I do my hair or make up, my body weight, the way I laugh…and then there’s the most obvious…when I open my mouth to talk—the lack of fluency and the heavy accented Korean I speak, automatically gives me away as a foreigner in my “home.”
When I speak Korean, this leads to more questions—am I Chinese (yes, even in Korea, I am asked this question) and sometimes the sad or embarrassed look if I bring up the topic of adoption.
There are times that I dread speaking Korean, as I don’t want to be labeled as the “foreigner” in a place I call home. As I’ve returned to Korea, there are times when the feelings of not truly belonging have made me long for my other home—Minnesota. But when I’m in Minnesota, I long for being in Korea.
In both places, I reflect on my adoption and the experiences that have brought me to where I am today. There are so many unanswered questions that sometimes add to the difficulties of feeling like an outsider in places that I call home. The unanswered questions still leave me with an empty feeling deep inside that I’ve constantly searched for answers—how to fill this void? These missing pieces?
Several years after my first trip to Korea, I found myself walking through the streets of Seodaemun-gu, Seoul. A good friend had offered to go along to my birth clinic to help interpret a meeting with the clinic’s doctor. This would bring me one step closer to my first mother and I would learn more about my beginnings.
As I walked the streets near my birth clinic, I realized these were the same streets my first mother had at some point walked…When we entered the clinic, a friendly doctor ushered us in and showed us various rooms of the small clinic. Fortunately, the clinic hadn’t changed much since the time of my adoption.
As the doctor talked about the clinic, the one thing she mentioned that will always stay with me, “At this clinic, no matter if the mother is going to place her baby for adoption or keep the baby, that when the baby is born, the baby is always kept with the mother.”
All my life I was curious to know if I had spent any time with my first mother and this answered the question…Do I still have questions? Yes. But this has brought me a bit of peace surrounding my adoption.
I use the experiences I felt from my first trip to Korea, up until my most recent trips to help support adoptees return to their homeland through an organization I founded, AdopteeBridge. We provide positive post adoption support services for adoptees and their families—including consultations about birthland travel.
When we talk about traveling to an adoptee’s birth country, I reflect on my past experiences to help prepare adoptees return to Korea. How to be prepared about the wave of emotions that will hit at various times of a trip–ranging from visiting a baby’s home, an adoption agency, or to walking through a market or in the neighborhood where we were born.
To the questions about fitting in, but not fitting in, and also the hard question—wanting to stay in your homeland, but also wanting to go home.
Most importantly—keep realistic expectations and be prepared for the grief that may not arrive until well after the trip to your homeland.
While there will be ups and downs in life, especially as our journeys started from loss and pain, I hope all adoptees will have a bright future, just like what was wished for little Hee-mang, that I met so many years ago.
Christine Heimann 정주빈 is a transracial adoptee and was adopted from South Korea at the age of six-months. In 2017, she founded a non-profit, AdopteeBridge, which provides post-adoption support services to transracial and transnational adoptees. Her passion is to support other transracial adoptees as they continue their journeys in the hopes of finding more answers to their adoption stories.
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Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie’s blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and Twitter
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