The author was 5 years old with her parents. The photo is courtesy of Stacey Fargnoli.
I never thought about being adopted. It explains why I don't look like my parents, but it's not much. It is the missing piece of the puzzle that makes others feel comfortable. It is the fact that I have a back pocket for those group icebreakers.
I pull it out with ease. I was adopted. Blue is from Korea. At 6 months old, yellow. The front door of the police station is green. It's Tada! Wide-eyed amazement.
The news of six Asian American women being killed in Atlanta pierced through my indifference until March 16, 2021. I knew about the increase in violence against Asian Americans, but the fear that came into my being was new. It made me realize that I am a target of hatred regardless of my Asianness or not.
I didn't consider myself an Asian for most of my life because I didn't know Korean culture. My white parents believed that I would be more successful if I were more assimilated. It was called being Americanized. My mother told me that I didn't go to Korean school because I live here now. You are a US citizen. You are an American.
I thought I am American. What about the Korean part of me? My mom never talked about it. As a child, I assumed my Koreanness was gone and I was just another child. When you are adopted, the original parts fade and you become like everyone else.
My outsides never fell away. Growing up not acknowledging my Korean skin was part of me made it go away. My ethnic identity became an empty shell without the richness of cultural knowledge and experience to flesh it out. I learned in college that some people used the name "banana" for people like me, with yellow on the outside and white on the inside.
The author was 3 years old in front of her house. The photo is courtesy of Stacey Fargnoli.
A friend of mine told me about a couple who were going to adopt a girl from China. They were learning about Chinese customs and were making her nursery look like it was from China. It sounded weird to point out the otherness of a child they were about to raise as their own. It was disingenuous for parents to immerse a baby in a culture they weren't born into.
I might have been angry because I wasn't raised in a traditional culture. She wouldn't have to wrestle with the guilt that I carry, growing up in Asian skin, but not knowing anything about being Asian.
I concluded that the real Koreans were the ones who practiced all the customs at home with their Caucasian families. Babies ran out and learned the Korean language as soon as they left their parents, so real Koreans didn't immerse them in Asian culture. I didn't think I could call myself a real Korean since I didn't learn the culture as a young adult.
I never owned a Korean thing, except for a red booklet and a few sheets of paper. There were little black and white line drawings of things like girl and boy, and Korean words with English pronunciations. My younger brother had a copy as well. I kept mine into adulthood even though I didn't look at it. It didn't occur to me then, but maybe I kept that book in the hopes that one day I would learn more about Korea.
I met a Korean woman in college through friends who had traveled to Korea many times to visit family. I was excited about going to Korea after she encouraged me. She said that people would probably not speak to me in English because they looked down on younger generations who don't speak the language.
It was done by that. I had no desire to visit Seoul. The thought of Koreans dismissing me because I couldn't speak the language was a shame.
The author met her parents for the first time after arriving at JFK airport at six months. The photo is courtesy of Stacey Fargnoli.
I never learned anything Korean in my 20s and 30s because I thought they were too little, too late. I was afraid of being judged by other people, but eventually realized that I was the only one judging me.
By my 40s, I was curious about the customs I had never heard of. A friend of mine sent me a message about a free online beginning Korean language class at a local college. It took me a while, but I eventually signed up.
In March 2021, there were horrifying shootings. My gender and ethnicity were suddenly thrust into the spotlight by the media. It was frightening to be an Asian woman in America. I felt like I was in the crosshairs of a nation and everyone who looked at me saw me as a victim. I walked into my neighborhood grocery store and was terrified.
It was in that vulnerable state that I began my online Korean language class. It was terrifying to speak Korean words in front of people. It gave me the ability to learn something that would help me feel less like an imposter.
I and 40 other people cheerfully shouted, "Anyeonghaseo, Pangapsumnida!" at the start of each class. I didn't know how to say "hello" in Korean so no one would ever give me that sideways look again.
Being American is more than fitting in; it is honoring all of who you are.
I was raised to be like the white people I grew up with. It made me feel like a part of my life. My Koreanness didn't disappear because I didn't embrace my ancestry when I was young. It was hard for me to develop a healthy ethnic identity because devaluing the importance of being Korean made it hard for me.
I want to be clear, I am very grateful to have been adopted by my parents. I support transracial adoption, but I hope that parents see that being American is more than just fitting in; it is about honoring all parts of who you are.
I have not owned my heritage because it didn't feel like a part of me, but that is changing. I feel a kinship with other Asians. My husband and I are planning a trip to Korea for my 50th birthday.
A Los Angeles-based writer, who used to work as a news writer and a documentary TV writer/producer, is named Stacey Fargnoli. She is a wife and mother of two rambunctious teenage boys. She writes about female representation in the media.
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The article was originally on HuffPost.
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