Adoption Story — from Sylvia Updegraff

That’s me.
Son Jin Shil, K80-2834. My first mug.

I was a Korean orphan until at 6 months, woosh!, I landed at LAX where my mom greeted me and promptly tucked me under her arm as she ran to catch her connecting flight back to Utah.

And now my new family: a Korean, a Korean older brother, a white dad, and a Latina mom, living in a middle-class lily white town in Utah.

Life was so good to me. The only time I ever remember being teased was in 3rd grade when a boy on my bus called me a chink. “What’s a chink?” I asked my brother later that day. Neither of us could figure it out so we shrugged it off. Junior high and high school involved a series of painfully awkward moments and braided belts, but mostly good stuff. “If you dare move out of Pleasant Grove,” I’d threaten my dad, “I’m moving in with Sarah because I have to graduate here with my friends!” Of course I wanted to be skinnier, and prettier, and more popular. Of course I wondered why the zit gods were always waving their wands over me. Of course I hated looking in the mirror for half my teenage existence. But who doesn’t? I suppose this is where I see that I wasn’t an adolescent struggling because of my Korean-ness; I was an adolescent struggling because of my adolescent-ness.

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These are the gifts my parents gave me: Unconditional love. Validation of my existence. Unequivocal inclusion into their lives, hearts, and ancestry. Their heritage was my heritage. My slobber was their slobber. It was never denying, though. You can’t really hide the fact that a white dude and Latina lady can’t make a Korean pop out. I always knew I was adopted, and I always knew I was Korean. But they made me feel pretty, and normal.

They made me feel like a person. “That brown skin is so beautiful.” “Eeesh, those teeth are going to cost me a fortune at the orthodontist’s!” “Good thing you didn’t inherit our genes for big rear ends.” It was just always truthful, honest, accepting.

And then affectionate. “You are wonderful.” “You amaze me.” “We’re so lucky.”

They made me feel two things: human, and loved.

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Their success wasn’t a formula of You’re-45%-Korean-and-25%-Latina-and-30%-White. It wasn’t a careful gameplan filled with Korean heritage camps and annual kimchi tastings at July 4th celebrations. It wasn’t about making me feel Korean, or American, or Latina. They never put me on a pedestal, or tore me down, or made me feel radically different or painfully invisible. They wove a seamless cloak of homemade tamales and Korean maps and slip 'n slides, not to teach me lessons in culture, but to live life.

They taught me to be Me. Sylvia. A person, just like them, and just like everyone else on this planet.

They taught me to be every part of myself—my long fingers, my slanted eyes, my penchant for mashed potatoes, their child. There was no classifying of parts. Only inclusion.

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My 4th baby is still baking away inside me, and I want for him what I want for my older three: self-love. Whether or not this will include a study in their half-Korean heritage is up in the air: if I’ve learned anything, it’s that every kid is unbelieveably different, and they’ll all have their own needs. How I meet those needs is TBD; I’ll have to see how the cards play out. I only hope that I can help them to understand that they are a gift from God above. That I am awed and thankful for them. That I like them, and that I love them.

Any mom can hope to do that, adopted or biological.

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God bless my parents for the life they gave me. God bless them for giving me love, and food, and a family.

Mostly, God bless them for always making sure I knew that I was the blessing.

And that, I know, is the key to their success.



From Sylvia Updegraff of Life as Five.

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Note from Design Mom: for the duration of my pregnancy, I'll be posting advice, memories and stories about pregnancy, childbirth, adoption and growing a family on Wednesdays. You can find them all by clicking here. I'd love to hear your story or memory or advice, feel free to submit it to gabrielle@designmom.com.