China's Stopped International Adoptions: A Chinese Adoptee's Perspective - Part 2

Part Two

TW: Mention of suicide, self-harm

The main concern I have seen raised after speaking to several of my peers is that we, the 150,000 collective, some of whom are no longer with us as adoptees, have a tendency to be left out of the narrative. We are forgotten again. Many adoptees are susceptible to rehoming after the legal papers are finalized (second chance adoptions, unregulated groups on Facebook and other social media sites, source: Karpoozy), and several are assaulted, abused, and murdered by their adopted families (Source). Many of us even still lack citizenship (Adoptee Citizenship Act). Will anyone remember us? If we are unable to be with our biological families and the people who promise to love us forever may or may not abandon us again, these anxieties and unknowns persist. We will be footnotes in a textbook. If anything, we are a small smudge in history. Insignificant.

I’ve recently discovered that the Chinese Reunification Database has also become available to us as adoptees. This database has made it possible and financially accessible for adoptees to search for their origins and biological families. Then, the news of the closing hit. We have no idea what this could mean for the future travel of adoptees wanting to return to China for heritage tours or birth searches.

I was fortunate to see my original paperwork at my orphanage in 2014. I remember my first visit back to China 10 years ago. I was 19 years old, the summer after I finished my freshman year of college. I had gotten an internship to work at a foster home for special needs children over the summer in Beijing. I was nervous about my visa application going through because of my adoptee status. Would they accept me? Would they be suspicious? I remember returning to my orphanage. They still had my original file.

I worry about the future now. If I am able to go back, or if my file will be destroyed. If China forgets I exist. If they will pretend I don’t exist or never existed. I’m that abandoned child again. I worry about my mother, wondering if she thought about me. That first connection and first wound. If she still thinks about me the way that I think about her. And then there are the injustices our parents faced. As more evidence comes to light with the Family Reunification Database, we learn horrific stories of gender-based violence, domestic abuse, kidnappings, abandonments, and other traumas. How can all of these horrors be held within a single being, let alone a child? And yet, here we are. And what will happen to those of us who will brave the reunification journey? Who is searching and willing to be vulnerable all over again? Will we even get the chance? Will there be another hidden cost of this geopolitical proxy war?

I worry about my adoptive family, too. It’s a complex relationship, to say the least. I worry about my mother’s feelings. I carry the weight of the pain and loss she went through before she held me. Of the hope and dreams she had for me that had been modified as I grew out of the overarching adoption narrative, she had also been fed by society.

My heart breaks for women. At the heart of the matter is that we are beholden to such violence of whims and pressures of societies beyond our own agency. I hope that one day, we can grow beyond what was prescribed to us based on what our sex was at birth.

I hope to hold space for so many in this time of confusion and injustice. Hold memory for all we have lost and the many futures that could have been. I mourn so much and feel as though I am enduring a perpetual state of grief, yet there is so much strength in this community. There is a resilience that goes beyond words. Adoptees thrive in places we are not meant to live. We find each other in hopeless places. We are beholden to a tradition threaded throughout time, raised among strangers, and that produces an inner strength that knows no bounds.

Read more in Part 1

Reposted from: Hannah's Adopted Thoughts in An Injustice! on Medium

Instagram Handle: @endlesswanderer

China's Stopped International Adoptions: A Chinese Adoptee's Perspective - Part 1

Part One

TW: Mention of suicide, self-harm

On September 4th, I received a notification on Instagram titled, “China’s closed international adoptions.” it was 11:00 PM. Immediately, I texted my closest adoptee friends I had met throughout the pandemic, connecting through various channels and groups like Subtle Asian Adoptee Traits on Facebook and other online and in-person communities. We were all passing along the news, checking in on each other’s mental well-being, and focusing on how we would enter this new era. I hastily posted a thrown-together thought on an Instagram caption calling for community and solidarity during this time.

According to most estimates, China has sent approximately 150,000 of its children overseas throughout its international adoption program (BBC) over the last 30 years, with almost 83,000 of those children being sent to the US alone.

My attitude around and about adoption has changed significantly over the years. From the pride and joy of it all to the rebellion of being touted as a “China doll,” to the rejection of colonization, to the reclamation of my Asian identity, to the radical formation of my own adoptee community, and finally, the realization that we belong to ourselves as Chinese adoptees, can I sit at the intersection of mental health, a survivor of separation trauma, a survivor of geopolitical proxy wars, gender violence, high-control religion, self-harm, racial violence, and so much I cannot list or even begin to describe that has been inflicted upon my soul and etched into my body.

For those who don’t know me, I’m Hannah, Pastor’s kid, mental health advocate, social worker by education, nonprofit girly by trade, and coffee enthusiast by night. I grew up in Waco, Texas, and now live in NYC. Welcome. My own story began in 1994 in the Anhui province; my parents, unable to conceive, prayed for a child and, through God’s grace, were able to adopt a child. Me. Or so the story goes. The story that I was told. That I have been given by them, by the Church and community I grew up in, and by the conservative White majority Texas society into which I was thrust at seven months old. I’m not here to bash religion, politics, or even racial identities. I’m here to point out the reality that they exist. That was simply the context in which I was brought up with no racial or genetic mirrors, no linguistic or cultural bearings, and frankly, a little xenophobic rhetoric sprinkled in here and there by local news media and ignorant elementary schoolyard bullies.

I spent my teenage, identity-forming years coming to terms with a Major Depression Disorder diagnosis before I turned sixteen. I would later find out that Adoptees are  four times more likely than the average population to attempt suicide. I was not unique; I had my first attempt in my senior year of high school. Now that I am nearing my 30th rotation around the sun, there will have been at least two more scares and one hospital visit in my life.

I made my way out of “the fog” of adoption when I began to question the sincerity and ethics surrounding overseas mission trips of various evangelical churches, much to the dismay of my evangelical pastor father. I continue to stand by my convictions to this day as I work towards the moral and ethical safeguarding of vulnerable populations throughout my career. As there was no one to safeguard me.

Read more in Part 2

Reposted from: Hannah's Adopted Thoughts in An Injustice! on Medium

Instagram Handle: @endlesswanderer

Pride is Strength

First off, Happy Pride Month! This month marks the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots from 1969. The modern world has come a long way since then, including legislation, representation in media, and debunking stereotypes! However, despite 55 years in the making, discrimination and micro-aggression persists to this day and most likely always will.

Throughout my life, I've found the amount of inconvenience and grief surrounding my adoptions is about equivalent to the inconvenience surrounding my sexuality. It's ironic that Asian and Pacific Islander Heritage Month and Pride Month are back to back, as if trying to invoke my pride in those identities. However, I continue to stumble between feeling shame or inhibition and noticeably branding myself with the Gay Agenda.

Sometimes I wonder what is so significant about pride? How do we obtain it? Won't it bother other people who do not partake or relate with overcoming adversity? Do we need pride?

Well, I can confidently share that when I first learned about "demisexuality" and "quoiromantic" in high school I felt extreme peace and happiness. I was enraptured by the newfound awareness of others who felt the same way about relationships as me. I was at my healthiest (emotionally and mentally) and brimming with confidence. Years later, when I accepted suppressed feelings for another girl, I felt the same peace and confidence.

It is essential that we have the freedom to "live authentically," a common phrase I hear in the LGBTQIA+ community, because it is closely tied to our wellbeing. Naturally, we all have characteristics and quirks we withhold for fear of rejection or inherent disadvantages. However, I believe the feeling of relief and acceptance when we find supportive and accepting peers is worth the risk of rejection. Not only does belonging speak to enduring connections but also celebrating worth and purpose. All people, no matter the difference, have the right to find belonging and pride. And ultimately, what else would "Pride" mean but happiness (gay)?

The Hyphen is a Bridge

*Note: Names have been changed for privacy purposes

“Names are an intimate pocket within every language. There are no other words we arrive at quite so purposefully and lovingly as the names we give our children.” 

~ From “alfabet/alphabet” by Sadiqa de Meijer

My oldest known name is 江静月 (Jiang Jingyue). It is not my birth name and I don’t know who gave it to me. 江 is after the location I was adopted from. I’ve been told whoever gave me that name sounds like they were educated because it contains a literary term. I’ve also been told twice by Chinese people that it doesn’t sound like a real name, yet another fantasy that makes up my story. 

My parents made 静月 my legal middle name, to preserve some of my Chinese-ness, sandwiched between two European names. They broke it in two, “Jing Yue” instead of “Jingyue” as my adoption documents said. Another cut tie, a space I can’t fill. They said it was because 静月 is two characters, but I can’t help but think it’s still meant to be one name.

When I was younger, I spelled it with a hyphen, “Jing-Yue”, a bridge across the space. When I was in high school and renewing my passport, I learned it should be “Jing Yue”. I realized that some of my official documents had it as “Jing Yue” and others “Jing-Yue”. It hasn’t yet caused any problems, but I’m anxious now every time I have to include it. I suspect based on a document trail that my parents meant for it to be a space, but I’m not sure. How to explain the hyphen? Was it a mistake or an attempt to stitch the two names back into one, 静-月, instead of 静_月? 

What better symbol of the identity confusion of an adoptee, that she is not sure how to spell the oldest of her names?

Some people consider renaming an adoptee an act of violence, stripping them of their previous identity to replace it with your own. I’m not sure. Once it has emerged from its chrysalis, no one calls the butterfly a caterpillar anymore. It is still the same being, but it has emerged changed. I do not feel like 江静月. 

Sometimes, I consider if I would change my documents to match. It seems like a lot of effort and time. The story of an adoptee, anything related to identity is a lot of effort and time.

I’m not sure what I would pick, would I choose the “-”, to bridge the space or would I choose the “_” as my adoptive parents intended? Or would I choose to close the gap and get rid of the confusion, 静月 once more? Would I go back to 江静月 or choose a new name entirely, metamorphosize myself on my own terms? I do not know. Until I do, I stay with my current names, where only the names my adoptive parents gave me are certain.

“How do we pronounce our skin in English”

~ From “granted to a foreign citizen” by Sun Yung Shin

By Hannah

Asian Heritage Month

What is Asian Heritage Month for this adoptee? It is an open wound, a floundering, a contradiction. It is a fierce pride in who I am, in who my ancestors were, and in the rich culture and stories of my ancestors. It is also an intense need to minimize myself and not self-identify as Asian. How can I celebrate Asian pride when I don’t know daily cultural rituals or the traditional way of mourning? When I’m learning more about my culture through novels and other kinds of media because it’s not something I instinctively know. When I don’t know how to make traditional food. When I can’t correctly pronounce words in my original language or my own Chinese name, and I need to download a language app to learn the basics like “how are you” and “my name is.”

How can I celebrate Asian pride, myself and my Asianness when I feel like a fraud? For so long, I identified more with the white community I grew up in and my mom’s white friends than with people of colour. I used to want to be white and have people view me as white, even though it’s obvious I’m not, especially when standing next to my family. I always chose the pretty blond Barbies; my ideal image was blonde and blue-eyed. I used to write stories where the main character was always white (either blonde or redhead). I would consume Western media where the Asian character, if there was one at all, was the stereotypical sidekick, such as the nerdy best friend who was just there. The books I read were used all about white characters exploring their stories, traumas, falling in love, and solving mysteries. Whatever the case, I would always surround myself with the white, Westernized character. Because that’s who I wanted to be, who I tried to be by minimizing my Asian heritage and my original family’s history, which still feels real despite being unknown to me. The stories are etched into my skin in invisible ink, and I just have to find the right light to read them. 

I have a shirt that says “Phenomenally Asian” that I love. Every time I put it on, especially during May, I hesitate, creating space for my doubts to grow. Am I really Asian enough to wear this to proclaim such a statement? To me, my upbringing and lack of knowledge of my culture suggest no. But I want to reclaim what I’ve lost, learn what I don’t know, and feel pride in this education. I want to reclaim my “Asianness” in a way that feels real, authentic and accessible to me.  

I’ve consumed and participated in Chinese events and celebrations, but they’ve always been Westernized and under the guise that they will be consumable to white people,  specifically white adoptive parents. The way I consume Asian culture feels so inauthentic and Westernized that I feel like I don’t have the right to claim the culture as mine. That I am no more than an outsider looking in, wanting to learn, wanting to appreciate. There’s no problem with that, but I also feel a deep longing to feel more of a part of the culture and the local Chinese community. Despite my upbringing in a white family and community and the privileges that proximity brings, I am still a Chinese woman. I have faced microaggressions and anxieties related to my position and identity. I have a Chinese family. I have a right to participate in my culture in a way that feels right. I just don’t know what that looks like yet, and thus, the crux of the problem.

You can connect with Brontee on Instagram @brontee_colleen

General Tso’s Recipe: A Self Portrait

Instructions:

1. Let the knife carve along the ribs of the carcass

   a. etch every groove into your mind

   b. along the compacted curves of your cerebellum

   i. following a winding road

   ii. leading into the mist

   1. a missed home.

2. Let the spatula press firmly against your tongue, massage the forgetfulness from your tastebuds

3. Let your hands knead the dough

   a. palms sink into your lobes, lines, folds

   b. tell a story of love

   c. of longevity

   i. of a red thread tightly wound against the brain.

4. Let the dough rise like the prideful puffing of the chest with passion fruit embers lying in the hearth of the bellies. 

5. Bask in the heat of the second womb, the oven of incubation that you create for yourself 

6. because you understand

7. that a recipe need not ingredients

   i. when it was you all along. 

Originally published on Good Little Girls Zine, a literary magazine dedicated to women’s empowerment. 

You can find Celeste Lian Bloom on Instagram at @celeste_lian_bloom.