My story of love and loss as a transracial adoptee

When I was three years old,

I was transracially adopted
from South Korea

by a white family in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I arrived in America
with a mysterious tattoo

on my left forearm.

The tattoo was so large and noticeable

that my adopted parents
had it surgically removed right away.

They were worried that other kids
would make fun of it.

Today, there's only a light scar
where the tattoo once was,

so I've redrawn it in permanent marker
so you can see what it looked like.

Korean adoption records in 1976
were notoriously incomplete.

I didn't have any information
about my background

or my birth family.

I didn't even know if my name or birthdate
were real or if they were assigned.

And no one knew what my tattoo meant.

Transracial adoption is where a child
from one race or ethnicity

is adopted by parents
from a different race or ethnicity.

In my generation, children
who were adopted from Korea

were assimilated into the culture
of their adoptive parents,

so I was raised as if I were white.

Growing up, occasionally my family
would eat at a Korean restaurant,

or we would go to the Asian festival,

but I did not identify with being Asian.

Looking back now,

having my tattoo removed is symbolic
of losing my connection

with my Korean ethnicity and culture.

And I am not alone: since the 1950s,

almost 200,000 Korean children
have been adopted all over the world.

A growing body of research shows
that children experience trauma

when they're separated
from their families of origin.

My story includes such childhood trauma.

I recently found out that my birth mother

left my family shortly after I was born.

When I was two years old,
my birth father became injured

and could not provide
for my brothers and me,

and so my two older brothers and I
were sent to children welfare services,

and there someone decided,
because I was younger,

that I was more adoptable.

And so I was sent to a separate orphanage,

separated from my brothers
who cared for me.

My adoption records say

that I wouldn't play with any
of the other children at the orphanage,

and now I know why.

My adoption photos show the picture
of a frightened, malnourished little girl.

Just imagine my culture shock
a short a lonely nine months later,

as I arrived in America,

where everything was different:

the people, the buildings,

the food and the clothing.

As a three-year old child,
I quickly figured out

that no one spoke
the Korean language that I spoke,

and so I stopped speaking
altogether for six months.

And when I started speaking again,
it was in full English.

One of the first phrases I said

as my parents showed me
my orphanage photos

was, "Sara sad."

Children who are adopted
often put up emotional walls

to protect themselves
from being hurt again.

I certainly did this,

and like many transracially
adopted children,

there were many moments growing up
where I wished that I was white

like the other kids around me.

Other kids made fun of my eyes and nose.

Now, the '80s styles were
particularly brutal to me

with glasses that didn't fit well,

hairstyles (Laughter)
that looked ridiculous on me.

This narrative of adoption might be
uncomfortable for you to hear.

The narrative that we usually hear

is that of a new parent
who is eagerly awaiting

a child that they've been
wanting for so long.

The parent's story is told with love,
joy and excitement,

and as they bring a newly adopted
child into their home,

family and friends celebrate
and congratulate the parents

on their wonderful decision to adopt.

My parents' adoption story was like
a beautiful blanket that kept me warm,

but after a while it felt like
the focus was more on the blanket,

covering me and my point of view entirely.

I couldn't emotionally breathe.

My parents would say things to me like,

"I fell in love with you
the first time I saw your photo."

My heart broke.

They loved me, I know that,
and I was wanted,

but I wish that the only birth story I had
wasn't so sad, so humanitarian.

I would often confuse love with gratitude,

especially when other people
would say things to me like,

"You're so lucky
to be adopted to America,"

or, "Your parents
are such angels to adopt you."

To a child, it felt like these comments
were constant reminders to be grateful

to my parents' charity.

I resented that I
couldn't tell these adults,

I don't like being reminded
all the time that I'm adopted.

I just want to be a normal kid,

and maybe even be ungrateful
once in a while.

But I learned to smile
without really smiling,

and as I grew older
I wanted to be able to say,

Sara is still sad.

But I buried my feelings,
and I wasn't until later in life

that I realized I'd never
really grieved my own adoption.

While many of us understand
that adopting a child

from a different race, culture
or country is never simple,

we rarely acknowledge the complex emotions

that children who are adopted
can experience.

Some children experience feelings of loss,

feelings of rejection,

grief, shame,

guilt, challenges with identity,

difficulty with intimacy,

and control issues.

Just ask my kids.

Children who are adopted
can still love their adoptive parents

at the same time as experiencing
these complex emotions,

and many of us wonder,
if we had had safe emotional spaces

to own our own stories
when we were younger,

would we still be struggling
to come to terms

with adoption as adults?

Where do we find the emotional oxygen
to own our own stories?

Since the late 1990s and early 2000s,
researchers like Dr. Richard Lee

have focused on different
parenting techniques

for transracial adoption.

The hope is to help children
and their adoptive parents

better adapt to their unique racial
and ethnic circumstances.

There's more inculturation encouraged,

that exposes children to the people,

places, languages and culture
of their birth families.

Some parents focus on racial inculcation

to specifically work with their children
on the racism and discrimination

that they will experience
outside of the home.

And some parents allow children
to choose as they get older

the level of exposure to the culture
of their birth families.

Now, we might look
at these signs of progress

and think we've got it all figured out
when it comes to transracial adoption.

The Korean adoptees were the first
massive wave of international adoptions,

almost 30 years earlier
than most other countries,

and so there are entire generations
of Korean adoptees

from children

all the way to adults in their 70s

dealing with the impact
of their assimilation,

and there have only been
a handful of studies

that follow transracial adoptees
over a lifetime.