Rowley's Word

 

It was my dear mom’s birthday today.  That’s us in the above picture.  Looking at this photograph on the born-day of the woman who has been my devoted supporter, unfaltering nurturer, sternest critic, and most enthusiastic fan triggers two immediate thoughts.  They are:  A. I have an enormous head. Huge. Just huge.  And  B. My life is golden, all because of my mom and our beautiful family.  

If you’ve read my “About Me” page, you know that my parents adopted me shortly after I was born.  For a large part of my life I didn’t like the fact that I was adopted.  And I whole-heartedly resented the hostile reality of being one of three minorities in my Middle American high school.  But my woe-is-me attitude about being different in this way wasn’t something I talked about…ever.  Instead, I rebelled.  I rebelled big time.  

I was angry at my birth mother for abandoning me, and I was bitter toward the world for placing me in an environment, where I stuck out like a sore thumb.  So I made sure the people closest to me paid for my sorrows.  That’s what parents are for, right?  WRONG.  When I have children of my own the universe is going to throw some catastrophic karma my way, for sure.

For most of my life I have not wanted to admit that being adopted has played a major role in shaping who I am.  I used to think if I dared make that proclamation people around me would think I was playing what is sometimes referred to as the “race card,” the look-at-me-and-how-special-and-different-I-am-card.  For this reason, I avoided talking about why my last name is Scottish, and why I’m the most Westernized Asian woman in the world. 

But now…now I offer up the information as soon as the questions start popping.  I’m proud of where I came from, and I feel honored and blessed to have been brought to the United States via international adoption.  It’s part of who I am, and it’s why I’m here today.  It’s a gift.  I realize now more than ever that I’d better do something amazing with it.  I’m still working out the details of what that profound discovery or achievement is.  (It keeps me up at night sometimes.)

In the interim, I can revel in how lucky I am to be an “import.”  (See poem.)  I wrote the poem below about two years ago.  It was originally an ode to my biological mother, whom I have never met.  Now, as I read the lines and everything in between I see the versus as a tribute to both of my mothers.  The most enlightening aspect of the following words is that I can now proudly say I have two mothers, but I have only one mom. 

To Kay G. Rowley (Mom),

Thank you for choosing me.  Thank you for loving me.  I hope one day I will be as patient and wise a parent as you.  

“The Daughter I Have Not Been”

Mother,  

My mother 

who did not get to practice

Motherese,

Please…

Are you still known?

Now that I’m grown

do you wonder about your daughter,

the baby girl you sent down the water

to follow bigger dreams

in the Western World,

where everything is plush and pretty? 

Mother of mine,

I was just seven years old

when the bullies kicked me,

called me “import”

and made fun of my un-american nose.

I was the ugly duckling,

the black sheep,

the freak in every room.

Yes, every adoloscent endures humility.

Yes, my blessing

was my doom.

Mother,

did you know

that in high school I got straight A’s? 

I was the President of the student body

and the lead in every play.

Mother,

I have a beautiful mom

who has given me the world

You gave me up.

You gave unto her.

Thank you

for giving up your baby girl. 

Mother,

My Mother,

I know you’re alive somewhere in my

Seoul.

Korea calls for me at night.

Shall we meet just once

before I let you go?

Do I like look you?

Are you stubborn like me?

In the next life over will

we live longer than before?

Mother,

If I can give you anything,

it’s that 

I’m not angry

anymore.