Friday, 2 December 2011

Even A Trip To Ikea.

Hello again, And so soon readers. Today I roamed Ikea with a friend to check out/test out some new furniture, But I ended up wondering what kind of life I could have one day. Maybe I liked the hard lines and sterile environment of a contemporary style because being warm is a danger zone to me. Or maybe I just like the architecture of the angular work with small splashes of organic accents. I questioned myself further than what could or could not happen with my relationships. I wondered if I could find the forgiveness in me to be able to get married, And have a child of my own.. I found myself yet again torn between races and my search for identity running me in twisting circles.

Biologically if I married a Korean guy we’d have 100% Korean babies; The type of child I am most comfortable with. If I married a Caucasian man our child would be mixed, But my genes being dominate they’d look more like me. It’s the struggle of me letting them explore what it means to be a white American. Then again if it was a tall Caucasian fellow they would still be mixed, But would have a higher chance at a “normal” height by American standards. Being short is hard as a kid and in adulthood, But at the same time for many it’s a part of being Korean.

It seems like such a small part of the week to go to Ikea and check out some pieces. For me as an adoptee it flooded my mind of how will I build a family if I can’t find my birth family. It seems almost silly, But it’s the little things that bring up my thoughts of adoption. It’s the Asian couple walking together, And the white toddles staring at my face. It’s the 5 year old Korean adoptee with her white mom looking at me thinking, “She looks like me… I wonder if her parents look like her too”. It’s the Korean woman passing me by giving me that warm loving smile, and saddest eyes swimming in pity. It’s the eight family members at the Asian markets running around all speaking words I was meant to understand, But I can barely say hello. It’s me trying not to cry because I can’t read anything on the damn shelf, And all I want is a tub of fucking red pepper paste!! It’s me getting home and opening the tub to find its shrimp paste!! It’s feeling my hands go numb, Dropping the small green bowl and breaking it on the floor, Because I can’t stop crying for the life of me!!!

Sometimes when I scream it feels like she can hear me, Like my mother knows how upset I am for being so in the dark on who I was supposed to be. If the search doesn’t go through, What will I do? What can I do? How do I start a family of my own when a stupid trip to Ikea puts my mind in pieces, And just seeing the other shoppers makes me want to run and hide.

I think some people are just too damaged to be repaired. Finding my birth family would be a miracle. Growing up in the states has only taught me not to believe miracles can happen; There is no God conducting magic for us. We are all just humans; We only have magic we have was written by J.K. Rowling and she’s from the UK.

매일은 통과 도전 느낌, 그리고 매 순간 당신이 어머니를 생각합니다. 당신이 어디에 있을까, 그리고 열심히있다면 나를 나가있는 가족을 시작하십시오. 나는 깊은 어두운 푸른 바다를 작성 한 방울보다 당신을 사랑해.

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