Macy [pseudonym, of course] is among
the handful of people I have met since my recent move to Tuscaloosa. She gave a
presentation in class one night, and while the presentation itself did not
delve deeply into her own personal story, we (my classmates and I) successfully
engaged her in such dialogue during the question and answer session that
followed. The most intriguing part of the conversation, at least to me, was the
confliction that accompanies a sense of placelessness for one’s identity. It is
important to point out that this was not intriguing to me because I enjoy
seeing anyone experience disequilibrium. That’s not the case at all. Instead,
it was that Macy seemed to have a deeply felt problem[1]
that she was attempting to work through; it was real and poignant, and I
admired that. In the conversations I have had with Macy since that evening, I
have learned that she is not only a Korean adoptee, but like many of the
individuals Kim writes about, she struggles incredibly with her sense identity
as it relates to race, culture, and nationality.
There is something serendipitous
about reading Adopted Territory now
that I have made this recent acquaintance in Macy. In fact, because of Macy’s
willingness to talk about her questions and her pain, Kim’s description of the problems
surrounding the “misfit identity” possesses an almost tangible quality to me
now (p. 93). As I was reading through this book, though, my first thought was
to give it to Macy as soon as I was finished with class this week. I have to
confess, though, I’m on the fence about whether or not I should.
See,
my experience with soul-searching quests for understanding have always started
out well. They have typically begun with intense curiosity and a mild sense of
unease. But it rarely takes long for the feelings of unease to intensify into a
deep, unavoidable, and often prolonged discomfort. Along the way, and out of
necessity, I have learned to see this discomfort as absolutely essential (ironically
and/or unfortunately) to my overall process of growth and change. And even
though I know this is true for myself, I continue to feel very conflicted about
potentially imposing this disequilibrium and angst on another person,
especially is they are not yet ready
to take it on. How do you avoid causing someone unnecessary pain? How do you
know when a person is actually ready to begin seeing things – often painful
things – for the first time so they can begin to make their way toward
understanding and possibly, even, healing?
The
critical discussion on adoptive parents was the part in the book that put me on
the fence about whether or not to hand it over to Macy when I finish reading
it. She has expressed deep love and gratitude for her parents, and I have yet
to hear her make any of the parental complaints that Sunny Jo makes in Kim’s
book (p. 116). This, of course, does not mean that underlying conflicts do not
exist for her such as those regarding histories and experience with racism and
white privilege, the morality and sentimentality of ‘saving’ children, and the
privileging in popular discourse of the humanity of adoptive parents over the
humanity of the adoptee. If I lived Macy’s experience, and I loved my parents
as she claims to, it would be enormously painful for me to confront such critical
ideas about my parents, my reality, and how I came to my place and time. And I
suppose that tonight I am struggling with whether or not I can bear to be the
intermediary that may potentially lead someone toward that type of pain.
[1] John Dewey referred to this ‘deeply felt
problem’ as a “felt difficulty,” and he considered it to be an essential part
to the process of inquiry. See John Dewey, How
We Think, (Washington, D.C.; 1997/1910; p. 53).
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