My story of love and loss as a transracial adoptee Sara Jones
When I was three years old,
I was transracially adopted
from South Korea
by a white family in Salt Lake City, Utah.
I arrived in America with a mysterious
tattoo on my left forearm.
The tattoo was so large and noticeable
that my adoptive parents
had it surgically removed right away.
They were worried that other kids
would make fun of it.
Today, there’s only a light scar
where the tattoo once was,
so I’ve redrawn it in permanent marker
so you can see what it looked like.
Korean adoption records in 1976
were notoriously incomplete.
I didn’t have any information
about my background
or my birth family.
I didn’t even know if my name
or birth date were real
or if they were assigned.
And no one knew what my tattoo meant.
Transracial adoption is where a child
from one race or ethnicity
is adopted by parents
from a different race or ethnicity.
In my generation, children
who were adopted from Korea
were assimilated into the culture
of their adoptive parents.
So I was raised as if I were white.
Growing up, occasionally my family
would eat at a Korean restaurant,
or we’d go to the Asian festival.
But I did not identify with being Asian.
Looking back now,
having my tattoo removed is symbolic
of losing a connection
with my Korean ethnicity and culture.
And I am not alone.
Since the 1950s, almost 200,000
Korean children have been adopted
all over the world.
A growing body of research shows
that children experience trauma
when they’re separated
from their families of origin.
My story includes such childhood trauma.
I recently found out that my birth mother
left my family shortly after I was born.
When I was two years old,
my birth father became injured
and could not provide
for my brothers and me.
And so my two older brothers and I
were sent to children welfare services.
And there, someone decided,
because I was younger,
that I was more adoptable.
And so, I was sent
to a separate orphanage,
separated from my brothers
who cared for me.
My adoption records say
that I wouldn’t play
with any of the other
children at the orphanage,
and now I know why.
My adoption photos show the picture
of a frightened, malnourished little girl.
Just imagine my culture shock
a short and lonely nine months later,
as I arrived in America,
where everything was different:
the people,
the buildings,
the food
and the clothing.
As a three-year-old child,
I quickly figured out
that no one spoke
the Korean language that I spoke,
and so I stopped speaking
altogether for six months.
And when I started speaking again,
it was in full English.
One of the first phrases I said
as my parents showed me
my orphanage photos
was, “Sara sad.”
Children who are adopted
often put up emotional walls
to protect themselves
from being hurt again.
I certainly did this,
and like many transracially
adopted children,
there were many moments growing up
where I wished that I was white
like the other kids around me.
Other kids made fun of my eyes and nose.
Now, the ’80s styles were
particularly brutal to me,
with glasses that didn’t fit well,
hairstyles –
(Laughter)
that looked ridiculous on me.
(Laughter)
This narrative of adoption might be
uncomfortable for you to hear.
The narrative that we usually hear
is that of a new parent,
who is eagerly awaiting a child
that they’ve been wanting for so long.
The parents' story is told with love,
joy and excitement,
and as they bring a newly adopted
child into their home,
family and friends celebrate
and congratulate the parents
on their wonderful decision to adopt.
My parents' adoption story was like
a beautiful blanket that kept me warm.
But after a while, it felt like
the focus was more on the blanket,
covering me and my point of view entirely.
I couldn’t emotionally breathe.
My parents would say things to me like,
“I fell in love with you
the first time I saw your photo.
My heart broke.”
They love me, I know that,
and I was wanted.
But I wish that the only birth
story I had wasn’t so sad,
so humanitarian.
I would often confuse love with gratitude,
especially when other people
would say things to me like,
“You’re so lucky to be
adopted to America,”
or, “Your parents
are such angels to adopt you.”
To a child, it felt like these comments
were constant reminders to be grateful
to my parents' charity.
I resented that I couldn’t
tell these adults,
“I don’t like being reminded
all the time that I’m adopted.
I just want to be a normal kid,
and maybe even be ungrateful
once in a while.”
(Laughter)
But I learned to smile
without really smiling,
and as I grew older,
I wanted to be able to say,
“Sara is still sad.”
But I buried my feelings,
and it wasn’t until later in life
that I realized I’d never really
grieved my own adoption.
While many of us understand
that adopting a child
from a different race, culture
or country is never simple,
we rarely acknowledge the complex emotions
that children who are adopted
can experience.
Some children experience feelings of loss,
feelings of rejection,
grief,
shame,
guilt,
challenges with identity,
difficulty with intimacy
and control issues.
Just ask my kids.
(Laughter)
Children who are adopted
can still love their adoptive parents
at the same time as experiencing
these complex emotions.
And many of us wonder:
If we had had safe emotional spaces
to own our own stories
when we were younger,
would we still be struggling to come
to terms with adoption as adults?
Where do we find the emotional oxygen
to own our own stories?
Since the late 1990s and early 2000s,
researchers like Dr. Richard Lee have
focused on different parenting techniques
for transracial adoption.
The hope is to help children
and their adoptive parents
better adapt to their unique
racial and ethnic circumstances.
There’s more enculturation encouraged,
that exposes children to the people,
places, languages and culture
of their birth families.
Some parents focus on racial inculcation
to specifically work with their children
on the racism and discrimination
that they will experience
outside of the home.
And some parents allow children
to choose as they get older
the level of exposure to the culture
of their birth families.
Now, we might look
at these signs of progress
and think we’ve got it all figured out
when it comes to transracial adoption.
The Korean adoptees were the first
massive wave of international adoptions,
almost 30 years earlier
than most other countries,
and so there are entire generations
of Korean adoptees –
from children all the way
to adults in their 70s –
dealing with the impact
of their assimilation,
and there have only been
a handful of studies
that follow transracial adoptees
over a lifetime.
I know that people around me
could not understand my adoption grief.
Rachel Rostad, another Korean adoptee,
expressed what I was feeling
when she said,
“Loss is especially confusing to measure
when it appears as if
I haven’t lost anything at all.
It’s not missing like an organ.
It’s missing like wherever dreams go
when you blink awake
into the morning light.”
Every year, hundreds
of South Korean adoptees
search for their birth families.
Korean agencies report
that less than 15 percent are successful.
Last year, I found my Korean birth family
in just three months.
I posted a photo of my redrawn
tattoo on social media,
which Korean groups generously shared.
And a friend of my brother saw the photo,
and he knew instantly
what the tattoo meant.
When my father decided to send us
to children welfare services,
he was worried that we would be separated
and even adopted into foreign countries.
And so he took the unusual step
to place a large tattoo
on each of our arms
and on his own,
so that we could find each other someday.
And he tried searching for me.
And he was right:
the tattoo did eventually lead me
to find the family that I had lost.
Unfortunately, he passed away nine years
before he could see his children reunited.
But last year, I traveled to Korea
to meet my two older brothers,
my aunt and uncle,
and I learned a lot
of new things about myself,
including my real birth date,
which actually makes me
seven months older.
(Laughter)
This middle-aged woman
did not love hearing that she is older.
(Laughter)
And that explains all those gifted
and talented classes I had in school.
(Laughter)
But the most important
thing that I learned
was that I had a loving family in Korea
who remembered me as a little baby
and had never forgotten me.
I wasn’t abandoned,
like my adoption records said.
I was wanted.
It’s time to reframe
our views on adoption.
A healthy adoption ecosystem
is one in which children,
adoptive families and birth families
each own their unique stories.
When these narratives
are placed side by side,
it creates better empathy and policies
for the lives that adoption impacts.
Here are two things that adults can do
to better protect
adopted children’s stories.
First, give children safe emotional spaces
to express their emotions,
both positive and negative.
Phrases such as “tell me more,”
“what do you wish for”
and “those feelings are normal”
are ways that parents can grant
emotional oxygen to their children.
Second, validate a child’s adoption story.
Children may express emotions
that may feel hurtful
or worry an adoptive parent.
As a parent, work to hold
and manage your fears
separately from your child.
Always acknowledge your child’s story
as valid and important.
Now, it’s natural to want
to protect children
from experiencing pain.
But my tattoo is a poignant reminder
that every adoption starts with loss,
and every child is affected differently.
Children who are adopted
can live full, rich lives,
as we accept and build upon this unique
set of cards that we were dealt.
And as you listen
to our narratives with empathy,
you will hear other things as well:
childlike curiosity,
grace,
resilience,
courage,
love
and yes, even gratitude.
Thank you.
(Applause)