there are so many situations, and that’s why i think it’s hard to say
unequivocally that the bmoms are at fault across the board – just my
opinion though.

i think the system needs to change. i think the culture needs to
change. i think the government needs to change. through that change,
i think more ownership can be placed on the bmoms. but cultural
revolutions aren’t easy to come by.

i know that my bmom supposedly gave me up to the orphanage several
months before she got married. that her “boyfriend” who was my father
was an older, married, owner of the clothing store she worked in.
that i grew up with her and my maternal grandmother – before being
sent to Eastern. these are the words that were recorded the day she
dropped me off.

Colored Walls

they echo off blank walls, colored by my imagination – changing,
drifting in multi-faceted hopes and dreams at 5, 15, 25 years old. i
fill in the blanks of her situation, at 5 with no other resolution
than being fed well, cared much, and disciplined for my need to hide
food, cajole my playmates, and hide under my blanket at night. at 15
i know nothing of korea except that it is foreign, uncool, a place
where my bmom gave birth to me and sent me away for a “better life” –
i’m told to thank her for giving me opportunity, and that she loves me
in her “own way”. i’m 25 and i know korea more vividly than i ever
dreamed i would. i breathed the smog filled air of seoul for years,
capturing the scent of my birthland, something too familiar,
recognized by a place so deep down i can’t see it, no matter how hard
i look. my mind’s eye plays games when i sleep, her words resound in
korean, and i understand – but sadly, i do not believe. the walls of
memory are slashed and ripped by vivid dream colors, and at 25 i see
things too well – they blind and hurt. she gave me up to get married.
she sent me away to fulfill her own dreams. dreams that you can only
have in korea with a man’s name. he now keeps me from her, and she
keeps me from myself. i forgive, but i don’t forget; i want to paint
my walls with the right palette – not the dashed discord of pitiful