Before I write this and possibly hurt more feelings know that next to my wife and daughters, there is no one greater I love than my adopted family. My adopted mother IS my mother.
I had my assumptions on adoption. I was adopted, ergo, it was a good thing. I even had great parents and growing up at least half my siblings loved me and by Vegas odds that is considered GOOD. So I was pro adoption. I saw some signs adopting kids didn’t always turn out in a story book ending, another Korean boy I knew went through the harder realities, but even he did not suffer the atrocities I later found out went on.
So I am in Pusan (Koreans call it Busan), South Korea, as I wrote in an earlier post, and I am with the other Holt adoptees. The employees at the orphange say they wish to bring out a group of ladies that want to give their babies up for adoption. They want to find out if America was a nice place and if we would speak with them. So we all got a turn to say something.
“Ahnyoung ha sae yo” I say in my horrible Korean. I then proceed to tell them America is a nice place. I really don’t remember much more of what was said other than a lot of smiles. Perhaps more smiles then should have happened for what was going on. At this point in the story of my life I had not yet grasped the heartache that was happening. I was still “ok” with everything. But now in adulthood, with two children of my own, I would never let anyone take them. I suppose if I throw a bone I can place my birth mother among the same smiling faces of those women in the orphanage that day. Instead most days she is the shadow that placed me on a doorstep then like a thief she snuck away in the night. Sometimes I wonder if she looked back, most days I hope she turned around and tripped.
Jason C. Cushman