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Of broken hearts and barbeques |
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 WORDS Wendy Anderson
Born in one place, growing up in another, yet connected to both.
As the runway of Incheon Airport disappeared beneath us, the grey airliner banked over the ancient mountains of Seoul. For perhaps the millionth time that day, I kissed the top of the black-haired head that lay against my chest. At that moment, I understood how a heart can be so full it might burst.
This beautiful child had already been loved by two women, and he was only 20 weeks old.
His remarkable birthmother had relinquished her illegitimate son so he could have a life she knew she could not give him. His remarkable foster mother had carried Kim Jong-koo in a sling, slept beside him, nursed and nourished him. She had cared for him while the documentation and health checks necessary for the adoption to be legal in both Australia and South Korea were completed. Now, unremarkable Peter and Wendy were taking him away.
‘Say goodbye to your motherland little man’, I said. ‘You’re on your way home to the Land of Oz.’
There’s a moment in the life of those of us with children adopted from overseas when we are struck by the enormity of what we have done. Although for me it was almost ten years ago, the recollection of that moment humbles me still.
I honestly thought it was a time without parallel. But on another day, as snow fell in shining confetti over those same ancient mountains, I met my daughter Shin Ha-yeong, and I knew I was destined to have my heart broken on a regular basis for the rest of my life.
When your children were born into another culture, extra duties come entwined with the usual parenting challenges. Along with your children, you adopt another homeland, another set of traditions—you become custodian of their heritage. Today, adoptive parents want their children to grow up utterly comfortable with the fact that they have been adopted. If Australia is truly multi-cultural, not just multi-ethnic, then being Korean-Australian or Filipino-Australian or Ethiopian-Australian is indeed something of which they can be proud.
Celebration days—their birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day—bring a bittersweet pain for me. Somewhere on the other side of the world are two women wondering who their baby has grown to be, how happy, how beautiful, how clever? I have the privilege of knowing the face, nurturing the developing person, feeling the love that her gift of life brings to the world.
So our family has special ceremonies. On Mother’s Day, we each take a handful of tiny glittery stars to a place the children choose—like atop the highest rock at their favourite beach—and we blow the stars into the wind. As we do, each one of us makes a wish for those birthmothers. Carefully selected candles burn on our festive tables as tributes to two Korean mothers we all hope one day to meet and hug and thank for their bravery.
Our Korean-born children have learnt something of their birthparents’ language; they love their Korean-born babysitter and have always enjoyed storybooks about Korea. Our home has Korean artifacts and souvenirs mixed in with all the other visible evidence of what we value and where we’ve been. And they are making their way towards proficiency at tae-kwon do.
Some of our dearest friends are families we have met along the adoption journey. None of us have children whose faces match ours so there is a sort of comfortable shorthand in our relationships. We all understand how a stranger’s curiosity can lead to thoughtless questions about the make-up of our families. We know that others seem to know us first because of how our families look. Each time I am shattered and stunned when one of our kids encounters the brutal cruelty of racism, the most valued of these friends will always remind me that whilst we are colour blind, the rest of the world is often not. Together we find ways to help our children stand strong against ignorance.
So, our adopted kids answer to both their Aussie names and their Korean names. We celebrate Chusok and wear hanbok on special occasions. When we have friends around for a barbie, especially on Australia Day, we have two national dishes: sausages and bulgogi.
Two countries. Two cultures. Two homes.
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