Perception is a beautifully powerful tool if it’s not misused. Everything looks clear if it’s not cracked or shattered from the moment opinions are formed and views begin to change.
This is the best time to truly evaluate oneself and try to make things as perfect as they can be. Very few aspects of my life have been flawless, and they likely never will be. Everyone has things in their lives they can’t take back or change. You get to a point where you can accept your personal truth. However, there are always other things about life that demand the same kind of attention.
It had become pretty clear that my perception and views were nothing like those around me. It was a burning feeling in my gut, it was also something I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t cover up the fact I’m adopted from Seoul, Korea. That would’ve meant hiding my face, my body and perhaps most importantly, the other half of my identity as seen by the rest of the world.
Korean was my identity as an abandoned 10-month old coming to the U.S.—and it always will be. I didn’t want that to be “swept under the rug”. It was, and still is, just as important to my story as my disability is.
I was adopted into a devoted and hard-working family in the small railroad town of Altoona, Pennsylvania after my Dad stumbled upon my picture in a pamphlet about adoption. He noticed part of the caption said, “…has cerebral palsy” and anxiously called my Mom, who worked in a special needs program at the time, to ask what it was.
With a son already adopted from Korea, they were determined to do everything they could to adopt me. It took many sleepless nights and disconnected flights to JFK Airport in New York City to do so, but they were headstrong enough to see it through. It’s difficult for me to articulate how grateful I am they didn’t give up, because they easily could have. I wouldn’t have the life that I do if they hadn’t persisted. I wouldn’t be able to write about this if it weren’t for the selflessness of my birthmother—whom I’ve never met.
My parents haven’t looked back since adopting me, and neither have I. I stopped questioning a lot of things when I was old enough to understand this part of my life. I didn’t have anything solid to fall back on, so my adoption was all I knew. In my mind, it was always where my story started. There was no lucrative trail of information leading up to my birth. The only tangible thing I remember my parents telling me is that I was left in a police station in Korea with a note that read, “Please adopt her to a family that can raise her.”
As young as I was, I didn’t want to forget that—ever. I also didn’t want the fact I am adopted to scare people away, especially anyone who potentially wanted to be my friend.
Yes, everyone could see I already had a very large, overwhelming shadow. Everyone questioned it, but no one seemed to stare at my jet-black hair, oriental eyes, and lightly-tanned skin the way they stared at my wheelchair as I got older.
It seemed no one was as willing to ask questions about my adoption when I was a kid—unless my parents initiated the conversation. People thought there was a big, mysterious correlation between my adoption and diagnosis of cerebral palsy. So, when they did ask questions, they would say things like, “Did you have to pay for her because she has a disability?” All the while, there I was—sitting in a stroller beside my older brother.
My parents always smiled and politely replied, “No, we worked very hard to get our children. We love them, and we treat our daughter like any other child.”
My parents initially decided not to tell many family members about my diagnosis. They hoped the rest of the family would accept my disability for what it was—and not look at me with pity. Little did they know, they would get their wish in a beautiful, unexpected way.
During an Adoption Seminar, our local newscaster decided to do the news with me on her lap. My Mom frantically called my grandparents to tell them about my cerebral palsy so they didn’t find out on the newscast. My grandfather’s voice was filled with joy as he said, “I knew she was special!”
I was raised to always try and go beyond what’s expected. I couldn’t have been brought up any other way with parents who worked night shifts in restaurants and offices and grandparents who were dirt poor. The ramifications of my diagnosis were that I was “supposed” to only go so far in life before I’d reach a certain capacity. In fact, I wasn’t allowed to say, “I can’t”, but rather, “I’ll try.”
I wasn’t supposed to have this life, but I’m here. And thriving. I’m showing everyone what I’ve done with the words, “I can’t.” The question is, ‘What will you do with them?’
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Photo Credit: Pixabay