Little girls are raised to be aware of strange men lurking around schools in vans. They’re taught how to properly cover their bodies so not to appear like they’re asking for ‘it’. And when you’re a kid, ‘it’ equals sex. If you’re lucky, you don’t really understand what rape means beyond unwanted sexual attention until you’re much older, or it happens to you.
When I was a toddler, I envisioned the woman who bore me as a nameless, faceless saint. Her love transcended the physical realm. She was more like a spirit than a person. I thought her akin to the Virgin Mary in our Christmas manger, because there was never any talk of male involvement; just this ethereal figure who loved me so much that she sent me away.
At seven years old, I already knew to protect my innermost feelings. I loved to write. A relative gifted me a locked diary—which I treasured but did not trust. In a household with surveillance cameras in bedrooms, boundaries weren’t up for discussion.
At five years old, my white adoptive mother was already asking me to choose between my race and hers. “Do you think you’ll marry an Asian man someday?” I shook my head—not because I hated Asian boys but because I’d never met one.
Like every story about a woman who tries to have children and can’t, mine is deeply personal. It begins with my own adoption. I arrived from Korea at six months old, expected to be one of those clean slate babies with no memories or trauma.