Fourth in a series

Story by AMY BOEREMA | Daily Herald Writer
Photos by BEV HORNE |Daily Herald Photographer

I'm late to my sister's party.

I rush up the stairs, past the loud music and throngs of friends.

Reagan's in her kitchen, talking to some co-workers. She gives me a hug and turns to them.

Daily Herald staff writer Amy Boerema, right, and her sister Reagan, visit Millennium Park in Chicago.

"Hey, guys!" she says, tugging my arm. "This is my sister!"

Silence. Then a chuckle. A raised eyebrow. An eye roll.

"Yeah, right," one guy finally says. "You mean, your sorority sister!"

Reagan and I share a Dutch last name and a bond as powerful as any blood siblings' - teasing, laughing and crying included - but our looks betray us.

She's 5 feet 9, with blond hair and brown eyes; I'm 5 feet 3 with black hair and dark brown, almond-shaped eyes.

By now, we're used to the dumb comments. But it's times like those that stress yet again a hazy line I've walked all my life.

My first baby photo, taken in a South Korean orphanage, where I lived for four months before coming to America. I don't know anything about my birth parents.

On August 5, 1980, I began my American life as Amy Lin Boerema. I was raised by my parents Jim and Kathy in Homewood, a far south suburb. I played with blond Barbies, read the "Baby-sitters Club" and idolized New Kids on the Block.

In my short Korean life, I was Mok Hwa Jang, raised for four months in an orphanage in Seoul, South Korea's capital.

More than 100,000 adopted Koreans live in the United States, the largest group of foreign adoptees, according to New York's Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute.

The South Korean adoption program is America's oldest organized one. Adoptions began rising dramatically after the Korean War, and numbers peaked in the mid-1980s. Today, South Korea rounds out the top four nations from which Americans adopt.

I'm part of what's considered a trailblazing group for the insight it's providing on what it's like to be identified as both foreign and adopted.

Experts say we're among the first to explore such race-related issues as how international adoptees define themselves culturally and what extent their birth country's heritage plays in their lives.

Like other adoptees, that obscure line I've straddled is part Asian, part Caucasian, and part something I'm still working on.

Most people can answer a seemingly-simple question: "Who am I?" For me, it's much more complex.

Boxed delivery

I don't know much about my Korean life, but what I do know has the makings of a good Lifetime cable movie.

I was left on the steps of a Seoul police station when I was a few days old, my birth date pinned to my shirt.

I was brought to an orphanage and given my Korean name, which means "tree flower." I came to America after four months, wrapped in a green blanket. A cardboard box served as my carrier.

I joined my brother Matt, my parents' first biological child. He had a year on me and a fondness for putting bowls over my head.

My adoption was finalized June 30, 1981, when I was 13 months old, by the Circuit Court of Cook County. I became a citizen of the United States July 13, 1982. For the occasion, I wore a red, white and blue dress and was sworn in with other immigrants.

My parents threw a citizenship party for me, with neighbors and friends attending, in our Homewood backyard in July 1982. I became a United States citizen on July 13, 1982. Donuts on a toothpick were a favorite treat of mine.

The next weekend, my parents hosted a citizenship party in our backyard, complete with American flags and red, white and blue streamers and hats.

Reagan, two years younger than me, was my parents' last biological child. But our family wasn't complete until 1991, when 10-month-old Alli arrived from the Seoul area.

Standing out

My mom, a teacher, was somewhat of a hippie and an idealist - she believed no child would be homeless if each family adopted one orphan.

She and my dad, a police officer, began my adoption process before they had Matt.

It may be more common today, but when I was adopted in 1980, it was rare for couples who could conceive to adopt children.

I'm told most friends and family members were supportive. But not all. My dad's parents never embraced adoption. We didn't see them too often, though they were nice enough to me when we did get together. But when they sent money as Christmas and birthday gifts, they were only for Matt and Reagan.

I found this out only recently, when I asked. My parents had always distributed the money they sent for us equally, so it came as a surprise. Though I never was close to my grandparents, who have since passed, I still was stung by their ignorance.

Others, too, made remarks about Matt and Reagan being my parents' "real" children, or asked if my siblings "accepted" me. Some even stopped talking to my parents after I arrived.

In my mind, my parents treated us all equally.

A family portrait on Halloween with my parents and brother, Matt.

But as a multiracial family, I knew we were different. In public, we sometimes got curious glances or questions.

When my mom went shopping or to the park, strangers would stop and say, "Your baby's so adorable! What country is she from?"

Other times, she felt people looked at us in disgust or tried to avoid us altogether.

It sometimes makes me self-conscious, like the time I went to a movie with my dad when I was in college. We walked into the darkened theater late. Even though they probably were looking at the screen, I felt like all eyes were on us as people wondered what the older white man was doing with the Asian young woman. Did they think we were on a date?

A year or two ago, I asked Reagan to stop introducing me as her sister. I'm not embarrassed; it's just tiresome - and a bit invasive - having to explain my personal history to people I'm just meeting.

Past mysteries

Still, because it's different, people have always asked me questions - mostly about my birth parents.

I can't answer those.

My mom likely was unmarried. In Korea, many unwed mothers place babies for adoption because of the strong stigma associated with out-of-wedlock children and because many don't have the resources to care for them.

But I have to confess I occasionally have conjured dream scenarios of my birth family. I might have an identical twin. My mom likely was a model or celebrity; my dad a rich, powerful ambassador.

The truth is I'll never know. My parents know the names of Alli's birth parents - they were a younger, unmarried and generally healthy couple.

My past is a gaping hole.

Fitting in

I never wished I wasn't adopted. But I didn't want special attention because I was.

One day, when I was real young, a boy at the pool called me a pancake face.

I didn't know he was making fun of me - who doesn't like pancakes? I learned as I got older. In sixth grade, a boy once pulled his eyelids back at the corners, mocking my ethnicity.

Those were the times I wished I looked like everyone else, and I'd ask my mom why I didn't have blond hair like Matt and Reagan.

My parents wanted me to be proud of my heritage. To keep me connected to my Korean roots, they brought me to picnics and cultural events with other adopted families.

My mom said I was fascinated with Korean dresses and fans, as well as seeing others who looked like me. But when I hit junior high, I no longer wanted to go. I didn't want to feel like I was different.

When Reagan asked if I ever wondered about my birth parents, I chastised her for asking.

But ignorant remarks about being Korean or adopted were not the norm.

"I wish I was adopted," a grade school friend once said. "That means you're special." Another told me everyone else looked the same, but I was "so pretty" because I was Korean.

Funnily enough, there were times I felt people were drawn to me, wanted to be my friend, because I stood out.

Reagan always has loved that she has two adopted sisters. "It's kind of how I defined myself," she said. In class introductions, it was her standard interesting fact.

It never was mine.

'Fake Asian'

Nearly all my childhood friends were white.

That changed at the University of Illinois in Champaign, where I was among a more diverse crowd.

I grew more interested in learning about other cultures, especially Korea's. One year, I even bought a "How to Speak Korean" book.

I soon realized, after trying to pronounce words and having no idea if I was close, how difficult it is to learn the language. I gave up.

At this point, the nature of the sporadic teasing changed. My white friends joked I was a "fake Asian" because I didn't know much about South Korea.

At Asian restaurants, I chose beef and chicken dishes over sushi. And my friends would laugh when I used a fork instead of chopsticks.

With them - as well as with my minority friends who were more connected to their cultures - I felt embarrassed at times for not knowing more about my roots.

But the teasing itself didn't make me want to learn more. That, I felt, should come from a sincere curiosity about the culture. It shouldn't be forced.

At ease with my roots

The experiences of adopted Koreans range greatly.

According to a groundbreaking 1999 study on the first generation of adopted Koreans - those adopted between 1955 and 1985 - some said they've always felt more at ease around white people; even uncomfortable around Asians. Others shunned U.S. culture, embracing only their Asian side.

I never thought much about being adopted unless someone brought it up.

Growing up, I thrived academically and socially. Except for a minor teen obsession with Army pants and glitter makeup, I was a normal, happy kid.

And I've always felt grateful for my family and the opportunities I've had, such as receiving a full scholarship to college.

Over time, my views on adoption have changed. As a kid, I was ambivalent and didn't want extra attention.

Now, I talk about it more openly. My interest in South Korea slowly grows. I even belong to an online Korean adoptee group.

And I know I'll visit South Korea someday. I'm sure it'll be an emotional trip, discovering a past I've never fully grasped.

Even if I had more information, though, I'm not sure I'd search for my birth parents.

I've never felt I was missing anything. I never felt I was "rejected" by my birth parents. Instead, I think they wanted better for me but knew they couldn't provide it.

If I found my birth parents, there's a chance they wouldn't want to meet me. I'm not sure how I'd handle that.

Still, I hope to take that trip to South Korea with Alli, who at 16, is growing up at a time when adoption is more common - and more accepted. She even asked our parents if she could go to the local Korean church to learn the language. I love her pride in her heritage.

And if I ever have the chance, I'd love to adopt my own children - from Asia, so they could look a little like me.

At my own pace

With more families crossing ethnic and cultural lines by adopting internationally, I think of my family as an example of what the new American family is becoming.

I'm proud of that. My parents adopted first, long before Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt or Madonna and Guy Ritchie made it trendy or newsworthy.

My parents didn't conceive me, but they're my parents in all the ways that count.

I'm glad my parents introduced me to my Korean culture, but thankful they didn't push when I resisted.

It's rare I get ignorant comments anymore, but when I do, I brush them aside. On the whole, I like looking different from my friends. I like knowing my story is different.

As far as answering the "who am I" question, I'm still working on it. My identity is built on incomplete parts, of knowing I'll never know answers to some pretty integral questions.

In some ways, I'm a little of it all - Asian, Korean, Korean-American, Caucasian, adopted.

I'm proud of each part now. My interest in my Korean side grew gradually, and for me, that wasn't just the best way, it was the only way.

What has been most important is that I get to choose how much I embrace. I can be whoever I want to be whenever I want. Exploring my heritage has been a journey I had to take on my own, at my own pace.

And I still have a ways to go.