And what purpose more perfectly obvious than to celebrate their birthdays together, every year for the rest of their lives? They will be so happy, and it will all work out so nicely, said one mother. And just think about the birthday cake, replied another. And the third, laughing, said why not pretend they’re all siblings and dress them all alike. And they all agreed that this was a wonderful idea, very happy and content with themselves.
I was watching and listening from a distance, and my heart cried for these children. Where’s the respect for the child? We’re met with this attitude the very moment we get adopted, the moment when we lose everything, and it continues to follow us throughout our whole lives. A birthday is a painful reminder of what we lost, an unfathomable loss of everything that was near and dear, safe and true.
And since apparently, to Western eyes, all Koreans look alike, it does not matter that we are treated like dolls, little Asian dolls for Western women to play with and dress up in Asian-looking clothes, with Asian-looking haircuts. And each of the little doll-like girls get an Asian-looking doll to play with. How thoughtful of their adoptive mothers to ensure that their adopted children are brought up as outsiders within the society that surrounds them, to drive home, as if with a jabbing finger, the continuous reminder that they are different, as if they don’t stand out enough by their looks alone.
When you stand out like that, as a child, you don’t stand out as something special. You stand out as a clown. And not the funny, happy kind of clown, but a clown that is sad and afraid because she’s so different, and because all the others tease and bully her for it. It’s a part that suits us so well because we’re tailor-made for it, having been brought up as cute and adorable little Asian living dolls.
And I am truly amazed. Do you, the adoptive parents, really buy this nonsense? Do you not see the connections that are right in front of your eyes? Right, then I shall give you some shocking news. Imagine, if you can, row upon row of baby beds at a hospital or children’s home, and in each bed is a child earmarked for adoption. Some administrator decides that the first few from the left will be given this birth date, the first few from the right another, and so on. Record-keeping is hard work, so why waste it on getting the details right, when the demand for children to adopt is great enough that nobody really cares, and when it’s just as well that there is no paper trail that leads inconveniently back to the original, natural parents? Change a few little things here and there, a new birth certificate with a new birth date, a new name, and falsify any names of birth parents, and you have a falsified record. The children will get new birth certificates anyway, when they get to their new family: birth certificates where the adoptive parents are listed as the real ones. Thus everyone will live happily ever after, and we will celebrate our fake birthdays, with grand parties that you adoptive parents give us, smiling and cheering on that fabulous day.
But our true past, that which made us who we were up to the moment when you took over our lives, has been effectively amputated and is lost. Even our names, everything old that might remind us of our past, and thus make us curious about our true origin, must all go, be kept hidden away for as long as possible, until the day the adopted child gets curious enough to begin asking questions.
Adoption never ceases to amaze me: how people don’t know anything, or choose not to see the truth behind adoption because their ego comes first. You can buy anything with money, even a child. Where is the conscience, that little voice within who says “Stop! Think again! You shouldn’t do this, because there are so many things that can and will go wrong. And they will go wrong, that’s for sure.”