#ThoughtsInKorea - Why Diversity in Media Matters

In the last few years, there has been a big push for more racial diversity in Western media. This isn't a new topic to most people. There have been cries for representation for years, but usually when you do see racially diverse characters in media, the stereotypes pressed upon those characters are so clear that it's almost painful to watch. The push for inclusivity has been only semi-successful so far, though some progress has been made. There is still quite a ways to go, however, before minorities can say they are being truthfully represented.

I was lucky enough to be introduced rather early to media that wasn't Western made. The greatest example would be the first time I listened to Yoon Mi-rae, otherwise known as Tasha. It was 2007, and she had just released the music video for her hit song 'Black Happiness'; one of the songs that would help put her on the map in South Korean media. I was 10 at the time, and though I didn't understand anything she was saying, I thought she was amazing. In my eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Today, I still consider her so. This song would later play a huge role in the beginning of my road to self-discovery and introduction to the entertainment world outside of the purely black and white Western media.

Yoon Mi-rae's mother is Korean, and her father is Black. During her childhood, she was bullied and harassed for her mixed race in both the USA where she was raised and later in South Korea where she would end up overcoming the odds and building her career as the country's most successful and popular female rapper. Her song 'Black Happiness' is about her experience growing up being rejected by two different racial communities for being of mixed race, something she had no control over. This video was the first time I had ever seen a Korean person, or even really an Asian person, being portrayed as someone cool and unique; someone you would want to emulate.

Unlike Yoon Mi-rae, I was adopted as a baby from South Korea and grew up with a Korean adoptee sister and three other Korean adoptee friends. While I always knew I looked different, for the early years of my life, I was blissfully unaware of the fact that people viewed me as different purely because of my looks. I was home-schooled for most of grade school, but after starting college in 2012, I was taken aback from constantly being asked questions like the following:

1. "Where are you from?"
   "No, where are you really from?" or "Oh, well, where are your parents from?"
2. "Oh, you're from Korea? How do you say _____ in Korean?"
3. "I heard that Chinese people eat dogs. Is that true? Have you ever eaten dog?"
4. "Wow, you look just like that girl from Suite Life of Zack an Cody!"

Do any of these sound familiar? Or have you ever asked someone these questions? I learned to be really good at hiding what I was really thinking when I was being asked these questions that I would prefer to never hear again. But throw these questions about my race on top of the ones I was already asked all the time because I am adopted, the child of a pastor, and home-schooled, and you have a perfectly confused (and thoroughly annoyed) young person with no idea where she belonged.

Though Yoon Mi-rae lived a life completely different from mine, I realized that I could still identify with her struggles. I held on to the same hope that she did that I could someday be able to find acceptance and use the hard times I faced to push beyond the stereotypes of my race. Following along with her success in the South Korean entertainment industry made me want to be like her that much more. I wanted to see more people like her, people who looked like me, and people who experienced the same things I did.

After discovering 'Black Happiness', I quickly thrust myself fully into the world of Korean entertainment. I loved listening to Korean pop songs and watching the videos of perfectly made up Korean idols dancing and singing their way across big stages with flashy lights and coordinating outfits. It was different, and I was obsessed, to put it simply. I was completely mesmerized.

It's easy to look at young people, and not-so-young people, and laugh at their obsession with singers, artists, movie/TV actors, fictional characters, etc. It seems silly that people are willing to dedicate so much time from their lives to people they don't know and probably will never meet. While I do laugh at myself now for being so invested in the lives of Korean idols and entertainers, I also look back thinking about how lucky I was to have access to YouTube, and later the general internet, during a time when being Asian wasn't desirable or something that people envied in the West. Perhaps one of the reasons I was so thoroughly invested in the lives of people that lived on the other side of the world was because there was no one at home that was like me to look up to.

I had the privilege of seeing Yoon Mi-rae live in concert in Seoul, South Korea this past summer. It had been ten years in the making, but I remember standing there in the crowd thinking, "This is it. I'm really going to see her live." I was shaking. Even though I wasn't close to the stage, it was the mere fact that I was about to see, in person, someone I had admired for so long that overwhelmed me. When she came onto the stage, my heart was pounding. She performed 'Black Happiness', a song about her struggle for acceptance, while being cheered on by a hoard of adoring fans: people who didn't care what she looked like. I will never forget it. After the show ended, I immediately turned to my friend and burst into tears. I left the venue still crying, and those who know me know that I'm not someone who cries easily.

I know I will most likely never meet Yoon Mi-rae. She'll most likely never know what she means to me, and that's okay. She doesn't have to, because irregardless, I will be forever grateful to her for pushing through the hardships she faced to be who she is today. Without her courage, I may not have become the person that I am today. I may not have ever traveled to South Korea on my own and met the amazing people that I did. I may not have ever started learning Korean. But most importantly, I may not have ever met my birth family, something that will continue to change the dynamic of my life forever.

All this to say, this is why diversity in media is so important, for young people especially. It’s so important to be able to look up to people that are more than glorified props or the brunt of a low-reaching joke. The media is extremely powerful in persuading how people should be viewed, which makes it that much more important to show the beautiful diversity that is present not only in the USA but also around the world. Different people all have something unique to offer, and that's what I hope the world will continue to learn.

Of course, there are non-Asians that I look up to just as much, but there's something about seeing someone like you on the screen that makes that much more of an impact. Watching people who looked like me perform on those big stages and be cheered on by thousands of screaming fans that also resembled me in some way helped me finally realize that being Korean maybe isn’t a bad thing as I had believed for a long time growing up. It took a long time, and I’m still processing, but I believe I’m finally at a point in my life where I’m comfortable with who I am and my racial identity.

~

"Sometimes it’s hard to see all the good things in your life

But you gotta be strong and you gotta hold on and love yourself"

Yoon Mi-rae/윤미래 - 'Black Happiness'

Potato in Seoul - Gyeongbokgung/경복궁 (Again!)

If you're friends with me on Facebook or follow me on Instagram (@lilea_ishere), you've probably seen all of these photos already, however, you're about to see them again! Yay! I decided to make a post using some of my favorite shots from this trip to the Palace.

Last month, I went to one of the palaces that I went to last summer, but this time, I was dressed in traditional regalia. I went with two friends, and we made a quick stop to a hanbok rental place that was right next to the palace where we got all dressed up before heading to the palace. Though palace entry isn't expensive to begin with, if you go to the palace dressed in traditional Korean clothing (hanbok), you get free entry! The hanbok place that we went to was small, and I didn't get any photos of the inside. The staff spoke a variety of languages, and everything was very quick and efficient.

Although hanboks traditionally come in bright colors, I opted for one that's more modern-looking made with darker colors. Those who know me, know that I'm always wearing dark colors. I haven't worn brights in...a long time.T and you get to try on two different options, but if you're still not satisfied with the first two tries, you can pay extra to try on more. I got lucky and ended up going with the first hanbok I tried on.

Lonely Seoul - Your Questions Answered: Adoption

About three months ago, I posted on Facebook asking people to share questions they had about either my personal adoption story or just questions about adoption in general. This post is to answer those questions as well as to share a few questions that have been commonly been asked.

The answers to these questions are, of course, going to be influenced by my personal story as an adoptee and shouldn't be seen as an answer or all adoptees since every story is so different. There is no way to generalize an entire group of completely unique individuals. However, I hope the answers I've provided can give you a little bit of understanding or at least insight into adoption.

Questions

What was it like growing up with a family that doesn't look like you?

Growing up, I knew I didn't look the same as my family. However, I didn't really care. I was lucky enough to be adopted by parents who treated me the same as their biological children, and I was also in a healthy environment unlike many other adoptees. As an adult, looking different from my family still isn't something that bothers me.

      One thing I can say, though, is that there have been times when I've completely forgotten I don't look like my family. I've seen other adoptees say similar things, and as I get older I've found it rings true with me. What I mean is that sometimes I completely forget I'm Asian. It's kind of hard to explain what I mean, and I know that this kind of thought manifests itself differently in each person. Essentially for me, I often feel as if I am of no particular race or ethnicity. It's kind of an "I'm here, and that's it" kind of feeling. I feel that I'm just something undefinable. Long story short, I'm still figuring this out for myself.

Were you ever made fun of for being adopted?

I was never personally made fun of for being adopted. Interestingly enough, it wasn't until I entered university that I started realizing how little people really know about adoption and how infrequently people have interactions with people who have been adopted, whether domestically or internationally.

      My first year of university was actually as a post-secondary student. (Note: post-secondary means taking university level classes while still in high school to complete both high school and university requirements.) After that first semester, I was left feeling really out of sorts with people, and I felt off-centered. I had never before experienced almost daily comments about my race and origins. I had also never had to explain the fact that I was adopted before to so many people. (Not that I technically owed anyone any kind of explanation.) It kind of felt like a daily routine: go to school, get asked by some stranger about my origins, go to work, get asked by some stranger about my origins, go home, and repeat. It felt like I never got a break. It built up a lot of frustration at other people and self-consciousness and self-doubt inside me about who I was and where I belonged.

Lonely Seoul - Reuniting

Imagine you have the chance to talk to someone that you haven't seen in a really long time. Maybe that person has passed away, or maybe they live rather far away. Perhaps they live nearby, but you're both just so busy that you don't get to see that person very often. If you had that chance, would you drop everything and go see them? Go talk to them? Maybe you'd spend the whole time talking and talking, whether the topics are significant or not: it would just be nice to talk to them.

What if I told you that I have that opportunity? To meet someone who was once dead to me and is now alive? Someone I spent my entire life not thinking about. Someone I still don't even know how to imagine in my head because I have no physical image to remember this person by. If you know my story, you've probably guessed by now, who I'm talking about. I'm talking about my mother. Not the mother who raised me (love you, Mom), but rather, the mother who gave birth to me: the one who gave me life.

As a kid, I rarely thought about my origins. The closest I got was listening to Korean pop music (otherwise known as K-pop) in my early teens, which I couldn't even understand. It was catchy music in a language I didn't know. It was a language that I was born into but not raised in. As most Korean adoptees were. 

For those of you who don't know the details, I was born in Seoul, South Korea in 1996. I was given to a social worker the day of my birth, and I was adopted by my American parents in 1997. I'm definitely not alone in this. From 1999-2015 alone there have been 20,058 Korean children adopted by American families with 16,474 of those kids being under the age of 1 at the time of their adoption. (Source)

In April of 2015, I called the Ohio adoption agency (the local agency) and talked to an employee there about starting the birth search process to find my birth parents. I was on the fence about starting a birth parent search, but I wanted to have the paperwork in case I decided to do it. I got the paperwork and ended up filling it out a few weeks later, but I didn't send them to the agency until August of that year after I came back home from spending a summer in Nashville, TN.

It was actually my time in Nashville that finally gave me the push to officially start the birth search process. In Nashville, I met Koreans that weren't adopted. I met Korean people my age who spoke Korean. It was my first time being exposed to the Korean language, which I really didn't know anything about. I could kind of read it, but I couldn't speak it at all. It was there that I truly first felt like I was Korean, though I also sometimes felt alone and excluded at times because of the language barrier, but I had decided that my Korean heritage was something I wanted to explore more into.

Also in April of 2015, I decided I wanted to go to Seoul to study abroad for a semester. I spent the next 10 months planning, earning and raising money, and finally, on Friday, February 26, 2016, I jetted off for a 6-month adventure. It was my first time stepping foot in my birth country since I had left it in 1997. 

Being in Seoul was a unique experience. There were many times where I totally forgot the fact that I was immersing myself into the country and culture of my ancestors – of my birth parents. It often felt like any other trip abroad I’d been on: London, Ireland, India. I was disconnected emotionally through a lot of my time in Seoul, though that’s pretty typical of me. For most of the beginning of the trip, I didn't feel connected to the country or the city or the people. It was just another city, another country, other people.

Prior to leaving for Korea, I had found out about the IKAA Conference (International Korean Adoptee Associations), and I decided to go. It was being held the week prior to me leaving, so I thought I’d go as a last hurrah. It was during the conference I decided to go contact my Korean adoption agency to see if there was any news yet. It had been almost exactly a year since I’d submitted my paperwork. I knew some searches took up to 3 years before anyone was found, but I wanted to check anyways. I e-mailed the agency. I heard back 2 days later with the response that they had never received any paperwork from me to initiate a birth search.

It was then that the emotions came out. I was angry that I had waited a year to contact them. I was frustrated that the local agency here in the US apparently didn't make sure this very important paperwork got through to the Korean agency. I e-mailed the Korean agency back that same day asking if I could meet with a social worker and to get a new set of paperwork to fill out to initiate the search (again). I set up an appointment for the day before I left since that was the only day that I had left at that point.

My time at the agency was bittersweet. The social worker showed me a scale model of what the agency grounds looked like around the time I would've been adopted. The agency office is still in the same spot as it was when I was adopted almost 20 years ago. I handed off my paperwork directly into the hands of the social worker, and I left. I walked along the street that was my home for a few short months, although most of the buildings that were there in 1997 don't exist anymore.

October 20, 2016. I got an e-mail. “On your request, we tried to find your birth parents and have the good news for you that we found your birth mother.” I was at school when I got the news. I had just walked into the building to get work done before class. I walked outside to call my parents. I was crying. I was crouching in the grass next to the main entrance, unable to control myself. I was getting stares, but I couldn’t even move. I was overwhelmed.

I had so many questions, but the main question running through my head was, “Why was it so easy?” If it was so easy, the agency could have found her a year ago back when I originally submitted for the search. I didn’t understand the timing. It seemed wrong and inconvenient. My mind immediately jumped to how quickly I could make it back to Korea. Could I go this year even? I had just come back home two months prior.

In the end, it happened. In fact, I'm in Seoul right now. I still don’t understand the timing, though I’ve accepted it at this point. Now, I’m just grateful that this is happening, thanks, mainly, to the support of my parents and a few adoptee friends.

I wasn't sure what to expect, what I was going to ask, or how I was going to handle all of this. But I knew I wanted it to happen, and that was enough.

Lonely Seoul : Change or Grow

*Note: a bit of a long read. So maybe you might want to refill your coffee mug before reading or grab the whole package of cookies instead of just two*

As an adoptee, I often hear stories about "connecting to your homeland". People often go back to their place of birth to try to identify with the place and the people there. There's a lot of people that think that being surrounded by similar looking faces might somehow help them find their identity. And, I too have believed these things. I entered South Korea hoping that maybe someday I'd meet the person who birthed me. I thought maybe being surrounded by Asian faces would help me find myself. I thought that no longer being "different" because of my Asian features would be comforting, that it would be something I needed. I've found it's quite the opposite.

To be completely honest, my first weeks in Seoul were not that fun. I was slow to make friends, and while I'm very thankful for the few I did make those first weeks, I was depressed and utterly lonely inside. I was disappointed in myself and in South Korea for not helping to feel "connected", for not feeling like I had found that South Korea shaped "missing piece" inside of me. I was upset that I wasn't seeing the changes I thought I'd make when I came here.

When I came here to Seoul, I thought my life would drastically change. I can't really word the type of expectations I had, but I definitely thought that something would become different about me. But, to be honest, not much has changed. I have the same worries and anxieties, joys and enjoyments. I have the same personality and general dislike for intensive academic lectures. I have the same distrust of weather forecasts and the same love of pizza and fried chicken. However, these might also be examples of consistencies. Perhaps some things about a person never change. Maybe there are things that, no matter how small, are meant to stay the same. Maybe the changes we see in ourselves aren't really even changes. Maybe they're just the consistencies of our lives slowly starting to emerge and show themselves in our daily lives. Instead of calling it a change, it's more of a growth. A flower is a flower even as a seed. It is no less a flower as a seed than it is when it's a flower. It just looks different. But it's still a flower.

The sunrise looks different every day, but it never actually changes. It rises consistently. The colors splashing the sky are never in quite the same array or pattern, but it always rises. It's always there. It never, technically, changes. It just looks different. Perhaps humans are the same way: we look different, but we're still the same. Not to say that we, as humans, cannot better ourselves. We can.  

For most people, the sunrise might represent a new beginning, a fresh start. For me, the sunrise represents consistency. It reminds me that despite the chaos of life, that there is at least one thing that remains the same. The sun will always rise. To me, it doesn't mean that a new day makes everything better, but rather that there is a new day to continue living the life I already have.

While it's amazing to live in another country, it's nice to have that constant reminder that despite the fact that I'm on the other side of the planet, I'm still living the same life I live at home. I might not have the same daily routine I do at home, but my life is still the same. I'm still living as me. The sun that rises here in Seoul is the same sun that rises back home in Ohio. It's the same sun that shone when I was in London, Ireland, and India. And when I go back to Ohio in August, it's still the same sun.

I think the world has become so obsessed with "change". Look at President Obama's tagline from his 1st term campaign: "We are the change we've been waiting for". Change is viewed as good, as necessary for life. But is it really? I'm beginning to think not. Seoul may have brought about some appearance changes in me, but I still see myself as the same me. I don't think I've changed. Maybe people at home will think differently upon my return, but the more I spend time digging into my own thoughts ((what a scary thing that is)), the more I realize that maybe I don't need to change. Do we really need to change, or do we need to grow?

In English, we sometimes say, "Why do we have to grow up?" in reference to losing our childhood innocence, our hugely vivid imaginations, and our naive view of the world. But isn't growing a good thing? Isn't "change" really what we wish we didn't have to do? Growing doesn't mean you have to lose your vivid imagination. Growing doesn't mean you have to lose your optimistic outlook about life. It's change that makes you decide that you're "too old" for games and for optimism and imagination. But we don't have to change. We don't have to lose that imagination: that visionary thinking. In fact, aren't some of the world's most successful people often visionary?

South Korea is notorious for its impressively fast growth. South Korea went from being one of the poorest to one of the richest countries in the world in 30 years. They went from war ravaged to being in the Top 26. However, Korea, in a sense, hasn't changed all that much. The more I'm learning about this country and its culture, the more I realize that my idea that going to a country can change you is, quite simply, a silly idea. The country can't change you, but maybe it can grow you.

~

Lonely Seoul : Adoption

I have decided to split my blog posts (however infrequent) into two categories: Potato in Seoul and Lonely Seoul. "Potato in Seoul" will focus on the more fun things about Korea from daily life to places I visit and cultural differences, etc. Lonely Seoul will focus more on the "inner workings" of my head: things I may not normally talk about.

Being in Seoul, South Korea has stirred a lot of thoughts up in my head. These two months here have been emotionally, physically, and spiritually trying. Seoul is an amazing city, but these six weeks have tested me in ways I thought I was ready for but found I wasn't.

As most of you know, and some of you may not, I was adopted from South Korea as a 5-month-old baby. I was born in a Seoul hospital (name unknown) to a 16-year-old girl who then turned me over to the Korean Social Services (KSS) for care and eventually adoption. I was given a Korean name, 강수정/Kang Su-jeong, by a social worker and was taken to the KSS orphanage/care center until the adoption process was finalized. I was boarded onto a plane on February 26, 1997 on my way to my new parents in the USA.

It kind of sounds like a movie plot, you know? A movie that starts out really sad but has a really happy ending. Everyone cries but leaves feeling satisfied leaving behind their handful of snotty tissues. But, really it's so much more complex than that. And I'm not the only one who's had this experience either. Here are some basic numbers on South Korean adoptions.

The Drop Box

안녕하세요, 제 이름은 강수정.

Hello, my name is Kang Su-Jung. 

Everyone knows me as Leanna. Most everyone I'm acquainted with knows I was adopted. What a lot of people probably don't know is the story behind my adoption. 

On the day I was born, my birth mother, gave up her legal rights as a mother. Only hours old, I was parent-less with a government-provided social worker as my only guardian. My mother was 17 at the time. She'll be 36 this year. I've never met her before. At least, besides those few hours when she was still my mother. I have no memory of her face, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hands. I don't even have my name to remember her by. I was named by my social worker. 

I don't know much about my birth parents other than what my biological mother provided the social worker. Although some say I'm lucky to have any information about them at all, I don't know if I feel lucky. At least not in this instance. Knowing is sometimes more painful than not knowing. It's hard knowing that my biological parents are out there somewhere living lives I'm not a part of. It's hard knowing that they might never even think of me.