Every time I think about you,
I wish I could talk to you.
I wish I could call you,
Or text you,
Just to see how you are.
What are you up to?
How's your life?

I'll never know.

Do you still think about me?
Do you hate me?
Are you still annoyed with me?
Are you willing to still be friends?

I guess I'll never know.

What would happen if I spoke to you?
Would you ignore me?
Talk back, but not be happy about it?
Talk back because you want to?

I suppose I'll never know.

Do you ever miss me?
Do you think of me with a smile on your face?
Rather than a frown?
Do even remember my face?
Do you keep our memory?

I will just never know.

I'll never know,
Until I try,
To talk to you,
And see for myself.

I am that petite build, with that straight, black and shiny hair that every white girl envies.
I have those slanty eyes that turn into slivers when I laugh.
I love kimchee, rice and mandu.  There is never such a thing as too much garlic.  I put red pepper flakes/paste on everything.
I use chopsticks.
People think I'm "cute" and pat me on the head.  That drives me nuts.  It still happens and I'm 32.
I regularly tell people that I don't speak Korean, except for "Where's the bathroom?" and of course "Anyonghaseyo".
My skin turns a dark tan in the summer months and I wish I was more peachy or pale like the white girls whom I think are beautiful.
I wear glasses.
I love to read and research things and I'm a good, diligent student, but I'm terrible with math and science.
I'm musical.

****

I play the clarinet, not the piano, violin, or cello; like every "Asian" should play.
I'm a tom-boy; you will never find me in a tu-tu or frilly-like dress (in public).
I do not wear make-up.
I'm loud, boistrous and obnoxious at times.  I have a serious *****-mouth and I'm not reserved or "refined".
I ask the guy out; not the other way around.
My career is more important than "settling down"-- at least during this point in my life.
I choose to never have children -- EVER.
I bite my fingernails and I've never had a manicure.  I've never even been inside a manicure shop.
I am a fantastic driver.
I am the only person of color in my immediate and extended family.
Over 99.5% of my friends are white.
I have never been in a relationship with an Asian man.
I grew up in an all-white neighboorhood and when I saw the Vietnamese, Cantonese, and Hmong students at my elementary school, I always wondered what it must like to be "them".

In 2007 I lived in South Korea for 3 months.  I encountered complex questions concerning who I am.  Who am I, really?  Am I an adopted Korean?  Am I a "real" Korean? Am I a Korean-American?  Am I none of these?  Does it even matter?  I was left with a gaping hole in my chest of deeper questions, deeper insecurities, and a poignant feeling of loss.  I thought, back in the States that who I am there is who I really am.  But, here I am, in the country of my birth, surrounded by people who share my ethnicity.  This is who I really am, right?  I felt such a deep responsibility to be more Korean.  I felt that if I identified as "white" or even a Korean-adoptee, that I was betraying my culture, my People, my home.  But, while I was in my homeland of Korea, I was so homesick for Minnesota.

When I returned back to Minnesota around Thanksgiving time, a few months later, Eastern Social Welfare (adoption agency in Korea) found my birth mother, Yoon, Young-Hee.  They were able to confirm that she was indeed my mother.  They tried to tell her that I have begun a search and that I wrote a personal letter for her, waiting at the agency.  Once they mentioned me, Young-Hee hung up the phone and would not answer Eastern's calls over a course of a year.  Children's Home Society and Family Services in St. Paul, MN contacted me and said that Eastern Social Welfare suggested that I wait a few years and try again.  I waited 6 years.  Last Decemember I re-intitated the search with the hopes that Young-Hee had gained the courage to talk to the social worker.  I had prayed for this for so many years.  I visulized light and love surrounding her.  I asked God for help.  I have heard nothing from my social worker and it's been almost 10 months.

I am learning how to let go of this search and let go of Young-Hee.  I am learning how to take my healing and my identity into my own hands.  I have a million questions that I wish I knew -- questions about my birth family's medical history.  Questions about why she gave me up. Questions about her current family.  Endless questions.  Now, I have come to terms that my questions may never be answered.  I could always have a mystery around my birth and possibly the future cause of my death (until I am diagnosed with something).  Can I live with this ambiguity?  As of right now, barely.  I am barely able to keep myself from falling apart with the frantic wonderings of my mind.  But, this is something I have to live with every day.

The Adopted Korean Community often hears wonderful and inspiring stories of adoptees being re-united with their birth-families. This is not my story.  My story is the all-too-common story that is rarely heard.  No one wants to hear how your birth mother will not cooperate with the Korean social worker and even read a letter you wrote for her.  No one wants to face the fact that millions of adoptees around the world live with this reality, too.  No one wants to acknowledge the pain, the rejection, and the loss that prevails.  Why would anyone want to hear a story like that?  Well, people who do not find their birth families or are turned away by their birth families have a story to share too.  It may not be an "upper", but it's a pretty important story to hear, too.  It lets us remember how we've all felt this way at some point in our lives, as an adoptee.  Most importantly, hearing stories like this helps other adoptees cope and feel that it is okay if their birth families wish to not meet or communicate with them.  It's not the adoptee's fault.  Adoptees who do not have success stories need to hear that this happens to many others and that a giant rejection does not mean he or she is worthless and less "special" than an adoptee who has been fortunate enough to reunite.

Why is it that I so closely tie my identity and then my self-worth to my birth family?  Why can I not be sovereign unto myself?  I am Korean.  Yes, I am.  It doesn't mean I must do, be, act, believe, see, or think in a certain way.  I am human, too.  I choose to have little identities that I see myself as while in different situations, with different people.  Indentity is complex-  it often signifies one thing-- oh that, (points) THAT is a chair. But simultaneoulsy, identity can also be so fluid and flexible -- (points) THAT chair is a folding chair, but this one isn't. But they're both chairs.  Maybe in some situations I can be a folding chair.  I'd like to play around with identity and let the concept roll around in my mind.  The thinking error comes when we think we must be one, same thing at all times. That is when we become stagnant.  How refreshing it is that we get to have such fluid identities!

Like every person on Earth, I have many shades.  I have many identities, and I surrender the long, hard fight to conform to one identity or another. This is my life and this is who I am, so I reserve the right to identitfy with whatever and whomever I see fit to be ME! :-)

Last Christmas Eve, that's when I found her
big *** rocker, lying in the trash
'neath layers of paint, magnolia flowers
still blooming, carved in oak or ash

it's been a while since you've been rockin'
passed along through the hands of time
the story's in you, but you're not talkin'
buried in layers of paint and grime

can't deny she's looking older
halfway home to the pearly gate
a sadder thing the day they sold her
wired her well but sealed her fate

and I declare before I found you
my heart was smoldering in smoke and ash
and I can guess just why they left you
one man's lover, another man's trash

once restored and in your glory
rocking chair, I'll see you though
your wood will breathe and meet the floor boards
worn with time but good as new

Now grab a hold of that big **** rocker
drag her out to the slanty porch
say lookee here you're fit for rockin'
and this old can still carries the torch

we'll work it out, I'm still believing
God's in His rocker at the pearly gate
And here we'll sit with my guitar and
surely bend the rhythm straight!

please forgive the slanty line
between the words and common rhyme
It's gotten out of hand, oh man, just sayin'
nothing's worse but what what I mean
a rhyming verse is not obscene
yet hardly worth the birth of notes I'm playin'

better to be out of words
than force the ones you've always heard
and bore you more with punctual partition
set in golden platitude
I'm working on my attitude
a sadder dude would swear he's near Perdition

I try to keep it off the cuff
but sinking low, enough's enough
and just as rough to find a way to end it
not poetic suicide
my own phonetic cuter side
to find the brokenness and try to mend it

thankful for the little things
the corny rhymes and onion rings
the stuff my dad would say to make us smile
that subtle joke, so funny Dad
and gee I miss you, now I'm sad
and hope to see you soon
" Just wait a while".

do you think we could put aside the internal asides prattling past rapture gone rupture, table or under the table throw those scraps to the dog that's pawing in favor of what's under our noses, on the plate facing up at us smiling a reflection in a circle of ceramic glaze gazing past the imperfect ramifications crystallized in those times and bones that still do bind and also occasionally chafe when they chime, the fragmented fancies that danced behind eyelids then knocked back the whites taking unglued precedence while neurons sat back and just watched momentum pulse, so stunned to find where you stopped there I started, and the only push-pull was helixical orb tossed on linguistic winks kinking our forever-tied lines that plead underneath the jilted to stop slanty-eyeballing the looking glass crass, affixing shark fangs where one once only saw wings, though truth be told, I have both of those things, but drain you, I won't, and feed you, I will, leaving marked memoirs of my work, but it'll be your fault, really, evoking the majestic while summoning the animal that reminds me why I'm knees-grateful to be a woman

?

On Lily of the Valley land just beside the forget me nots there are three magic mushrooms, scarlet red with white stems and spots..and inside these white stems each with a crimson canopy, dwells Vinnie, Minnie and Winnie all are as skinny as can be..

Each run around amidst the darkness of the night, looking like lean runner beans such a frightful, funny sight..A trio of thorny stick insects, as green as fresh cut grass.. six snakey, slanty emerald eyes sparkle like slithers of glass..and they live nextdoor to one another without a sister or a brother, they are nocturnal little creatures created from the earth Mother..

Vinnie is vivacuous, she loves to dance and sing as hooty Owls joins in her chorus.. with the Pipistrelle Bats upon the wing..Minnie is the most mischievious of them all, this thin, frolicsome friend drives the other duo up the wall.. But betwixt and between Vinnie and Minnie lives the loveliest of the lot, her charismatic charm mixes in their melting ***..So these three green grassy hoppers live amongst the woodland copse, side by side in a magic mushroom with the bright red tops