Bruce Gillespie - Somebodys Child: Stories About Adoption

October 14, 1982, baby girl abandoned by mother at hospital. The thin Korean man, sitting across the metal table from me, quoted from a faded manila folder. His manicured fingers flipped through the small stack of paper.

I waited before reacting to his words, wanting to hear more, giving him the opportunity to realize his mistake. That wasnt me, I thought. My birth mother had other children, boys, and couldnt take care of me. She parted with me, knowing that she was giving me a better life, because she felt too old to be a good mother to a new baby. After giving it a lot of thought, she gave her only baby girl up for adoption. My parents had told me that story since I was young:

Once upon a time you flew all the way across the world to come here to be our daughter. Your birth mother loved you so much that she wanted to let you have a better life than she could provide for you. Their bedtime stories enfolded what they were told by the adoption agency. But, now, here we sat, and the tale was different.

In 2008, at twenty-six years old, I returned to Seoul, Korea, with the mother and father who picked me up at JFK airport twenty-five years before. My younger brother, Alex, also adopted from Korea, two years after me, had moved back to Seoul after college to teach English, and we were there to visit. My mother and he came up with the idea to go to the adoption agency. It hadnt occurred to me. I was there to visit my brother and see some sights in the country where I was born. When they told me wed be going to the orphanage, I was somewhat indifferent. Sure, I said. That could be neat. But, I didnt know the four of us would discover something so different from that sweet bedtime story Id heard so many times before.

I leaned forward to listen closely as the man spoke. My mother, Susan, nervously twirled her blonde hair as he continued. The mother abandoned the baby, and the child was brought here to the adoption agency by a police officer who was notified by the hospital. Mothers name was Lee. The man closed the folder and placed his clasped hands on top.

Im sorry, did you say Lee? I asked. Outside the Holt Adoption Agency, cars honked back and forth. One man yelled at another driver, displeased with the response of his fellow commuters. Multiple cars beeped in retort.

Yes, he looked at the folder again. Lee, her last name was Lee.

We were told Beths last name was Cho by the adoption agency. My mother looked at me as she spoke with the man. My brother shrugged.

The man sat back in his chair. Often times, the orphanage gives the child a name of their own when they enter. So, most likely, you were given the name, he glanced down at his folder, Cho Moon Hee.

I didnt say anything. The name he spoke, one Id known and felt proud of for my whole life, felt, in that moment, odd and foreign. My mother looked at me and smiled. My dad had been silent most of the time we sat in that sterile room. I wrote down what the man said in a small notebook, processing the words as I wrote: My last name is actually Lee, not Cho. I wasnt given up for adoption lovingly; I was abandoned by some frightened woman. Abandoned. The moment she could get away from me, she did. As I scrawled out those last few words, I could feel the tears welling up, and I willed them to stop. I wasnt sure why I was crying. Not wanting my parents to think I was sad that I had been abandoned or left or given up for adoption, I looked down and focused on the pen in my hand, blinking the tears away.

Can you tell us anything else? Mom asked. What was Beths fathers name? Anything else about medical history?

The man pushed the folder away from him and placed others on top. That is all to tell. His English faltered.

Is there stuff you cant tell us?

That is it.

It wasnt exactly an answer to my question. He smiled kindly at me. I wondered how frequently he did this, told people things about their lives they never knew, things maybe they thought they wanted to know.

I wasnt ready to move from my chair yet. There was a lot to process. Something weighed on me that had not been there before this moment. For my whole life I had prided myself on being a drama-free adoptee. I didnt want to find my birth family; I felt issueless about my adoption itself. My parents had done a wonderful job letting my brother and me know we were adopted (Im sure the fact they are both Caucasian, my mother a blonde, no less, would have given it away at some point). And for my whole life I have known I am their daughter, and, to them, Im a gift. I didnt know that going to Korea to visit my brother on summer vacation would be such a life-changing experience. A perspective-altering experience.

Thank you for meeting with us, my dad said, shaking the mans hand.

My mother took both his hands in hers. Yes, thank you, so much. We are so thankful for all that you all have done for us. She touched my shoulder as I stood to leave. You gave us our baby.

Mom cried as she moved to stand next to my dad. It was a positive experience for her, to be there and learn what she could about my beginnings. It didnt affect her in the way it did me. How could it? I felt like a piece of me had been unexpectedly taken away at that moment. On the one hand, nothing could suppress the gratitude and love I felt for my parents and the fact that they took me in as their own and gave me a happy childhood and a bright future. However, a piece of something else had been ripped from me when the little man had said, Abandoned. The hole I felt sits with me still, and Im not sure it will be filled. And, the hardest part is, I cant explain it.

As we stood in the room, I could tell my mother would have been happiest to go around hugging everyone in the agency. Instead, she had to be content holding the hand of the post-adoption agent, who looked no older than me and therefore had nothing to do with my specific adoption. Yet, still, she held onto him, thanking him for all he had done, not wanting to leave just yet. I, however, felt ready.

He smiled at my mother. I will take you to the orphanage facility if you would like to see. It is the same place where your daughter was held before going to foster care, before coming to you. They do the same good work there today.

Oh, yes, please, she said, and took my fathers hand to leave.

We followed him next door to a larger building. My heart clenched in my chest as I saw the hallway. A police officer Id never know brought me here for my first night of sleep. I saw the room where I was cleaned and examined by a doctor. There was a small playroom with playpens and old toys strewn about the floor. The place felt industrial to me, and yet a palpable warmth permeated each of the well-cared-for rooms.

As we came out of the final room, a nurse came into the hallway in front of us. Her back was to us, but a small hand rested lightly on her shoulder. As she turned, my breath caught in my chest, as she revealed a pink-clad baby girl. Her almond-shaped eyes were big as she took in the room. Her stare stopped on my mothers blonde locks.

She has never seen blonde hair before. She came to us yesterday and is having her checkups. Ten months old.

My mother put her hand out and squeezed mine. Of course it touched her to see this baby girl here, waiting for her new life to start. I knew a specific fond memory had entered my mothers mind. When I was little, I used to ask her, Mom, was I a good baby?

Oh yes, she would reply.

Did I sleep well, through the night?

Yes, you did. Except for the first few nights. We had you in bed with us, and you would stay up all night and twirl my hair in your little fingers. You couldnt keep your eyes off my blonde hair. You had only ever seen black. You were observant even then.