Category Archives: Identity

Grieving the Mother Given to Me

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I hesitated to write this post about my adoptive mom. Yesterday was her birthday. She would have been 83-years old. She died in 2008 of Alzheimer’s disease. It has come to my attention recently that I still carry trauma wounds that need attention, and writing is one of the ways I process difficult feelings and emotions.

My adoptive mom was an RN. She returned to school later in life to complete her nursing education; I must have been in preschool or early elementary at the time — my memories are fuzzy. I do remember her taking me to class with her on occasion, likely when she was unable to find a sitter. Looking back, I realize there was so much about my mom’s life that I knew very little about. I knew her as my mother, but I didn’t know much about the woman she was beyond that role.

When I was a very young girl, I don’t remember much physical affection. I know she and my adoptive father loved me, but I don’t recall either ever engaging in play with me. I was an extremely insecure child — slept with a blanket beyond the age considered acceptable and drank from a bottle longer than I probably should have. I remember “the maid” throwing my blanket away because it was literally in tatters. I suspect my mom had her do it. I remember the gutwrenching grief that followed, which lasted days, perhaps weeks. That blanket had been a source of comfort and security to me, and losing it was profoundly painful. Looking back, I recognize that those attachments reflected a need for comfort and security.

In elementary school, I began having painful stomaches, and I frequently cried to my first grade teacher, asking her to call my mom to be checked out of school. On one occasion, my mom picked me up in the morning before class had even begun. When we got home, she promptly spanked and yelled at me. Spanking was, of course, a common form of discipline at the time, and I received my fair share of it. As I grew older, the stomachaches subsided, but I carried with me an intense shyness and great difficulty asking for help, especially from teachers or other adults. I learned at a subconsious level that expressing distress might not necessarily bring comfort.

My parents, particularly my mom, sheltered me. They were overprotective in many ways, and this became increasingly troublesome as I grew older. It was during preadolescence that the relationship with my mom became increasingly tense. While most teens were beginning to establish greater independence, my mom exerted more control. She chose the activities I was allowed to participate in and made it clear when she didn’t like certain friends or didn’t want me hanging out with them.

My mom had wild mood swings. On weekends, our home was often filled with tension as she cleaned the home or made meals. When she was angry, she yelled. Her anger was often directed at me, but also my dad, whom she critized often. He rarely fought back. There were, however, a few verbally aggressive arguments between them that were particularly frightening to my younger self.

Both of my parents abused alcohol and cigarettes. Some might say this was typical of their generation. As a young child, the evening martinis seemed to lighten the mood. I didn’t understand the significance of drinking till intoxicated nearly every evening. Our home was thick with cigarette smoke most of the time. As I grew older and wanted more independence, I became aware that the alcohol seemed to make my mom angrier and more emotional. What I experienced as tension as a child began to feel more threatening as I entered adolescence.

I know it isn’t uncommon for teens to yell back at their parents, and perhaps some of what happened between my mom and me was not unusual for adolescents of that time. What makes my story more complicated, however, was not only the misunderstandings between us, but my parents’ lack of understanding about how race and identity shaped my desperate need to fit in with my peers.

Staying out late, dating, and many other things my friends were beginning to experience were forbidden in our home. I watched my friends gain the freedom I desperately wanted. So I yelled back. It was the only way I knew how to protect myself. There were no conversations, no teaching, no attempts to help me understand or show support. Just yelling.

On one occasion, my mom became so angry that she pushed me back onto my bed and began tearing my shirt off, leaving a hole in the fabric. Another time, she ripped the telephone in my bedroom out of the wall jack while I was talking to a friend. These incidents, and many others, created such fear in me that I shrank, and I hated my mom in those moments. There was no one to confide in, not that I would have known how to ask for help or how to express myself at the time. I was unable to make sense of what was happening in our home, and there was nowhere to take the confusion, anger, and fear except music. Music is where I escaped

When I went to college, I grew more and more distant from my parents. I lived at home my first year, then moved on campus. I loved having the physical distance. It provided a respite, a barrier between me and my mom, and a place where I finally felt safe.

I loved college. Perhaps, not surprisingly, I began experiencing everything in excess, indulging in the freedoms that come along with being away at college. Excessive drinking, partying, staying out late, doing pretty much whatever the hell I wanted, alongside hours of practicing the piano. Some of my favorite moments were the quiet ones, practicing late into the night, alone in the music building, holed up in a tiny practice room. It was just me and the piano. There was something deeply magical about those hours.

The flip side was that I hated performing. The expectations of perfection that came with being a piano performance major was crushing. To this day, anything that makes me feel as though I have to perform or prove myself can trigger intense anxiety. I’m better now at moving through it without beating myself up when I fail to meet my own expectations. But I recognize that old feeling. Somewhere along the way, performance became intertwined with the fear of not being good enough.

In college, I began planning my escape. After graduation, I moved back in with my parents for about a year while I taught paino lessons to kids. I kept my distance from my mom as much as I could. Eventually, I hatched a plan to get out of Louisiana. By then, my grandmother had moved into our home. Though she and my mom didn’t always see eye to eye, I think it must have been a comfort to my mom to have her there. One morning, I packed my car with whatever belongings would fit and drove away.

I remember seeing both of my parents standing in the driveway, waving goodbye. My mom’s face held a sadness and worry that I had rarely seen before. I was leaving the home I had desperately wanted to escape, yet seeing her standing there caused something in me to break a little. I loved her. I resented her. I was relieved to be leaving, yet I was sad to leave her. This was the beginning of an inner conflict I would carry for many years: loving and despising my mom at the same time.

I got married at 26. That is a completely different story for another day. And, I gave birth to my daughter on October 10, 1997. Her birth marked the beginning of a profound new chapter in my life. She was the first human with whom I experienced what felt like true intimacy. Becoming a mother changed the way I saw my own mother. Something softened. For the first time, I could glimpse at her pain and suffering in a way I hadn’t been able to before. My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease not long after. And, very gradually she declined, until one day I returned for a visit, and she no longer recognized me.

I have wrestled with grief and guilt, struggling to reconcile both the resentment I held for my mom with deep sadness, knowing we will never be able to express apologies or forgiveness to one another. I do not hold anger or hatred towards her anymore. What remains is sorrow.

I know she did and said terrible things. For years, I refused to visit my parents. But time has a way of softening us. I don’t know much about my mom’s history or what she endured before I knew her, but I imagine there were wounds and pain none of us understood. I wish I had known more. I wish I could have understood her suffering while she was still here. And I hate that she suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. It was tragic to watch her deteriorate physically and cognitively as the years passed.

To this day, i feel I never really knew my mom. I know she loved me, and I feel gratitude that she did; perhaps she was doing the best she could with what she had. That doesn’t erase my own pain and suffering. It simply calls me to continue healing the wounds that are still tender and that sometimes affect me in ways I don’t even recognize. In some ways, I believe this pain led me to my profession. It has helped me understand the complexity of trauma, the ways our early experiences shape us, and the importance of creating the safety and compassion that I sometimes needed as a child. Perhaps this is one way I have made meaning from what I experienced.

My birthday is only nine days after my mom’s. Every year, those two dates sit close together on the calendar, a reminder of the complicated bond we had and the ways I will always be connected to her.

So, happy birthday, Mom.

May you be at peace, and may you be somewhere kinder and gentler now.

Photo by Christopher Sardegna on Unsplash

The Girl Who Found RUSH

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There wasn’t much room in my friend’s tiny Pinto, but somehow we all squeezed in. We were teenagers, high, laughing, and on our way to see RUSH at the Hirsch Memorial Coliseum. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about on the way there. I mostly remember the feel of it: being young and free, surrounded by friends, the anticipation of the concert ahead. For a few hours, nothing but laughter and silliness. We were just a group of kids who loved music.

RUSH was the first band I ever saw in concert. I was in high school at the time, an unlikely fan of a band whose music was probably more complicated than any other band I followed at the time. But something about RUSH drew me in. I’m certain it was more than just the music itself that resonated.

My friends and I were in marching band together. We were a raucous group of kids, and our band director had a difficult time getting the entire class to settle down, yet we were a top marching band. I loved music, but hated marching band. For one thing, girls weren’t permitted to wear makeup, which was nothing short of a tragedy to my teenage self.

My adoptive mom forced me to be in marching band after I casually told her that the band director invited me. I wanted to be a cheerleader. That, of course, was not to be. Band, despite being geeky, was where I eventually found my tribe.

Most of my friends, growing up in Bossier City, Louisiana, were white. I was not. In Junior High, I desperately wanted to be part of a popular group of girls, most of whom were white. For a while, they seemed to accept me. Then one day, I was told to find another group to hang out with. That stung. At the time, I didn’t understand why I had been pushed out, or consider that race may have had anything to do with it. The girl who seemed to lead the group was of mixed race and very popular, which made the racial exclusion even harder for my younger self to understand.

My band friends were white. I knew that. Race was never something we ever talked about, nor did anyone else. Growing up as a Taiwanese adoptee (although I was told I was Japanese and Vietnamese at the time) meant that I was often aware of difference in ways that I could not articulate. But with these friends, something happened that I didn’t fully understand then. They seemed to look beyond the obvious differences between us. We were simply kids in band together who shared a love of music and partying, and that felt safe.

Then there was 2112.

Exit Stage Left was the first RUSH album I owned. Of course, Tom Sawyer and Limelight were my favorites. My love of RUSH, and one of my band friends, led me to 2112. I must have listened to that album a million times over.

The story of 2112 is about individuality versus conformity. The protagnist discovers a forbidden musical instrument in a society that has eliminated music and individuality. The discovery awakens something in him that doesn’t fit the world in which he exists. I think something around the nonconformity was part of what drew me into the album so deeply.

Though I was in marching band, which was ostensibly about music, I hated being forced into it and the expectations that came with it. I was being told, in small and big ways, who I should be and how I should present myself. Then I found RUSH, a band whose music was expansive, strange, rebellious, and completely unconcerned with fitting into the expected mold.

In the music, I didn’t need to explain myself. My friends could not share my experience of being a Taiwanese adoptee or what it was like growing up racially different from the people around me. And yet, they saw me. We liked the same music. We laughed a lot together. We crammed into a tiny Pinto. For a confused teenage girl who carried an awareness of being different without having much language for it, their friendship was profoundly meaningful.

Sometimes belonging doesn’t come from people who are just like us. Sometimes it comes from finding people with whom we can simply be ourselves, without having to work so hard to fit in.

Belonging is messy and sometimes partial. What I know about RUSH, beyond the fact that they remain one of my favorite bands, is that their music gave me an escape from a messy, racially complicated adolescence. For a spell, I didn’t need to figure it all out. I could listen to the music, share thoughts about it with my friends, and feel like I belonged.

And I’d cram back into that Pinto with that group of friends any day.

If you haven’t listened to RUSH 2112, it’s a trip. Here’s the opening track, 2112: Overture…

Outsider Within

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It’s been an interesting week. I’ve been quietly building my sound therapy and psychotherapy practices while planning for events later this month and into September. On Monday, I met with a new client. As I settled into the session, something felt different. The office, though aesthetically beautiful, is shared with other practitioners and didn’t quite feel like mine. The familiar structure I’d become accustomed to was gone. I was left with an unsettling sense that something was missing. Perhaps it was a version of myself that is still shedding.

Despite the excitement of building something brand new and connecting with a new collective of practitioners, I’ve found myself feeling lonely. Perhaps it’s the strange paradox of being someone who deeply values solitude while still longing for connection. Maybe this is an invitation to open myself up to different kinds of connection. It’s curious how you can be surrounded by people, immersed in relationships, and still feel profoundly disconnected. It’s like being an outsider within. I’ve known that feeling since childhood and spent much of my life overcompensating for it. Now that I’m older, I don’t care so much about being the social butterfly. Still, there’s something deeply human about wanting to feel connected.

What I’m learning in this season of transition is that I do my best work in solitude, and music appears to be my muse. Oddly enough, it has taken me this long to realize that listening to music is what awakens my own creativity. There are a few songs I’ve been living inside this week. I’m realizing that creativity energizes me. It’s like air. Without it, I shrink.

A couple of songs that have inspired me are Wolf Alice’s new cover of Hammond Song and Visions Of A Life from their 2017 album of the same name. On Hammond Song, guest vocalists Julia Cumming of Sunflower Bean and Canadian singer-songwriter, Bria Salmena, join lead vocalist Ellie Rowsell. OMG, why have I never heard of Wolf Alice until now? The rawness and expansiveness of their sound immediately drew me in on my first listen of Hammond Song, This led me to revisit The Roches’ original version and the albums and songs I grew to love in the 90’s.

I love the way that Wolf Alice moves between intensity and vulnerability, from the ferocity of their punk and grunge to dream pop and folk songs that feel vulnerable and transportive. Visions Of A Life in particular struck a chord deep within. There’s a sharp edge to it that feels chaotic and alive. It reminds me that creativity is not always a quiet, gentle process. Sometimes it comes crashing in with grit, noise, and a bit of chaos.

I’ve also revisited Kalandra’s album, Mørketid. The first song, Mitt Hjerte Alltid Vanker, feels so austere, mysterious, evocative, and bold. I learned that the song is based on a Scandanavian Yule hymn. The artists reshaped the traditional song by rooting the lyrics deeply in seasonal nature and childhood memories. It evokes feelings of winter longing and the quiet nature of the darker months.

Perhaps that is why I’m so drawn to the song. I prefer Fall and Winter and seem to come alive during these seasons, as though I’m emerging from my own kind of hibernation. The song takes me to a place of reverence and vulnerability where I find myself confronting my shadow. We all have one, yet often suppress the parts of ourselves that feel uncomfortable or difficult to embrace. My fears, my old wounds, my hidden impulses are there, asking not to be rejected, but witnessed.

I recently read that light cannot exist without shadow, and shadow cannot exist without light. I’m learning that their is beauty in shadow, too, not just the light. Shadow makes me braver, more resilient, more confident. There is beauty in that even when the process is painful.

I love that music makes me feel so much, that it awakens something in me. Sometimes it guides me toward pain and shadow; other times toward immense joy and light. Music has a way of alchemizing all these parts of me, a reminder that shadow and light do indeed coexist. Most of all, I surrender. In a world that can often feel isolating, I am held by something larger than myself. And somehow, I find my way forward.

Visions Of A Life by Wolf Alice. Live version, 2018. Epic 🤘 Lyrics here.

Mitt Hjerte Alltid Vanker by Kalandra, lyrics included 🖤 The ending of the song is especially beautiful.

Photo by Vasi on Unsplash

Summertime

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What is it about summertime that takes me back to my youth?

The older I get, the more aware I become that there are fewer summers ahead than behind me. There’s a Portuguese word for this feeling: saudade. It describes a deep, melancholic longing for a person, a place, or even a version of yourself that is gone and may never return. It’s the bittersweet ache of being grateful the past existed while quietly mourning that it’s gone.

I can actually feel the word saudade. It’s a sensation that settles somewhere between my heart, my throat, and my belly.

There’s also senescence, but hell, saudade sounds a whole lot sexier 🤣

Summers were uncomfortably hot in the South. I grew up in Bossier City, Louisiana, where heat, humidity, mosquitos, and very large bugs were part of life. Yes, we had a bug zapper hanging from the metal canopy over our backyard patio.

I remember lying on the front lawn during my childhood, staring into an endless blue sky, picking dandelions just to blow their fluffy seeds into the wind. Every once in a while, I’d wander to the ditch behind our neighborhood, catching minnows, crawdads, and toads, all the while hoping my parents didn’t catch me; they strictly forbid going anywhere near the ditch.

Yep. That was childhood in Louisiana.

Summers were also for swimming, of course. I lived in a two-piece 😂 My parents had a pool built in our backyard, and the anticipation of finally being able to jump in felt like waiting for Christmas morning.

Ironically, once it was filled with water, I was terrified to jump in. I clung to the side of the pool until my mom enrolled me in swimming lessons at the local YMCA. How I hated those lessons. Swimming lap after lap felt like torture.

I became a strong swimmer though. You couldn’t keep me out of the water after that. There were countless afternoons and pool parties with my girlfriends, our skin glistening with baby oil as we stretched out in the blazing Louisiana sun for hours. Back then, a tan was the goal. We had no idea we were collecting the sun damage we’d spend decades trying to undo.

Music has always been like a time capsule.

This morning I was listening to Fantasy by Aldo Nova. Some of you may be too young to know who he is, but hearing that song immediately transported me back to my youth. I have a classic rock soul, though I love other genres of music. (Country is probably my least favorite… although I did have a country music phase in the mid-2000s!)

There are a few artists who never fail to stir memories like Blue Öyster Cult, Red Rider, Robert Plant, The Police, Fleetwood Mac, Scorpions, Duran Duran, Adam Ant, Blondie, AC/DC, Night Ranger, Def Leppard, Van Halen, Styx, Eagles, Journey, Rush, Heart, April Wine, and Foreigner. I’m sure I’m forgetting a few, but you get the idea.

Certain songs are like time machines, carrying me back to who I was, where I was, and how I felt. My first heartbreak. Summertime freedom. The quiet, rebellious part of me that wouldn’t fully emerge until years later, after I stopped trying so hard to fit in. I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by unforgettable music, and those songs are like old friends whenever they find their way back to me.

I think certain songs mysteriously call out, wanting to be listened and paid attention to. Perhaps it’s my guides. Perhaps it’s my own intuition gently reminding me to sit with this feeling of saudade. To embrace getting older instead of resisting it.

I’ve lived a life filled with brilliant moments and profoundly painful ones, as we all have. And there’s still a part of me trying to make sense of it all, searching for meaning in the moments that hurt the most.

Until then, I’ll keep listening to the music that nourishes my heart and soul.

I hope you do the same.

Rock on🤘

Taiwanese American Memoir Book Club Q&A

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Howdy, folks!

It’s getting steamy here in Southern California. I’m already longing for those cool, crisp autumn days, though “fall” and “winter” here are generally very mild.

Lately, I’ve been immersed in launching my sound therapy and private psychotherapy practice, surrounded by singing bowls, drums, my keyboard, and guitar as I prepare to share more music and sound videos. What I didn’t anticipate was how much audio engineering would become part of the journey! The microphone I purchased barely picks up my Tibetan singing bowls, my ring light decided to call it quits, and I’m still trying to determine whether the culprit is the microphone itself or the M-Audio interface and phantom power. It’s been equal parts frustrating and humbling, and the learning curve has been much steeper than expected. Still, I remind myself that I’m slowly making progress.

In the midst of all this learning, something unexpected happened. I was invited to the Taiwanese American Memoir Book Club for a Q&A about my memoir, Beyond Two Worlds: A Taiwanese-American Adoptee’s Memoir & Search for Identity. I hadn’t spoken publicly about the book in quite some time, and I assumed it would simply be an opportunity to revisit a chapter of my past. Instead, the evening became something more. It reminded me that while I’m building something entirely new, I’m also carrying forward parts of myself that have quietly shaped this next chapter all along.

It’s hard to believe that nine years have passed since my memoir was published, and fourteen years since I stood in Taipei and met my birth family for the first time. So much has happened since then, especially over the past three years. Sometimes I wonder what that earlier version of myself would think about how far we’ve come. I think she’d be pleasantly surprised and proud.

One of the first questions I received was, have I gone back to see my family in Taiwan. It was almost embarassing to reveal that I have not. I did not want to share personal details why; I did not anticipate that I would not return for so long. My marriage had much to do with my inability to return; however, last year, post-divorce, I planned to take a trip to Taipei during the Lunar New Year. Chronic exhaustion prevented me from so doing. It was a disappointment to my family as well as to myself. Returning to work after such a trip, as amazing as it would have been, would have caused further exhaustion, and I did not want to increase the symptoms of burnout. Sometimes the heart is ready before the body is.

I was genuinely grateful for how kind the book club participants were. There were other thoughtful questions, some I had difficulty answering. One that I fumbled over included how my daughter has developed her own cultural sense of identity. It made me reflect on how disconnected I was from my own cultural identity for much of my life. Inevitably, that shaped the way her father and I introduced our daughter to her multicultural heritage. My hope is that one day she will be curious and take a greater interest in celebrating her multicultural ancestry. It took decades for me to embrace my own birth heritage and only after finding my “secret” adoption contract. Thereafter, I was insanely curious and longed to learn as much as I possibly could about Taiwan and my ancestry.

As the years passed, I slowly drifted from my Taiwanese roots. Career demands, everyday responsibilities, and for many years, simply surviving took center stage. I never really found a Taiwanese community here in Southern California, and somewhere along the way that part of myself became quieter.

At the end of the Q&A, I realized that the invitation hadn’t simply brought me back to my memoir. It brought me back to a part of myself I’d allowed to become dormant. Perhaps that is where all new chapters start, not by becoming someone different, but by listening for the parts of ourselves that have been waiting to be heard. Somewhere in that quiet, I suspect another book is longing to find its voice.

Perhaps this invitation wasn’t simply an opportunity to revisit my memoir. Perhaps it was Taiwan calling me home again. This time, I’m listening.

a certain slant of adoption

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Howdy! I’m reblogging this post from exactly nine years ago today. As I reread it, a wave of thoughts, feelings, and emotions came forward all at once. It has been a long time since I’ve actively reflected on my own adoption, and yet I know it is always there, just beneath the surface.

I hope you’ll take a moment to read the post. My hope is that it offers a deeper understanding of the complexity of transnational (or international) and transracial adoption.

Hello folks! It’s Sunday morning, and the skies are gray in my lovely locale. Nevertheless, I’m enjoying the weekend, despite the clouds.

Today, I want to talk about adoption. Yes, that’s a given, but I have something more specific in mind.

For the past seven years, I have actively sought out and read blogs, books, scholarly research, adoptee forums, birth mother narratives, and adoptive parent spaces in search of connection, knowledge, resources, and validation. What I have found is a vast spectrum of perspectives on adoption, so many it feels impossible to neatly categorize them. The landscape is wide, varied, and deeply human, shaped by experience, identity, and lived reality.

As an international and transracial adoptee, my own perspective on adoption has continued to evolve. I don’t think it is uncommon for our views to shift as we experience personal growth and, for lack of a better term, mature. Adoptees often hold deeply personal perspectives on adoption, shaped by their own lived experiences, identities, and circumstances.

I’ve spoken with adult adoptees who are not particularly interested in connecting with their cultural roots or birth heritage, nor in searching for their birth families. Perhaps there is some curiosity, but not yet a compelling enough reason or desire to pursue that path. Other adoptees speak strongly against international adoption, and their concerns are often rooted in very real and painful experiences.

International adoption carries a complicated and, at times, troubling history. There are countless adoptees who were adopted through illegal or unethical practices, including cases where agencies and adoptive parents were aware that information had been falsified. These deeply harmful practices continue to occur in parts of the world today. The evidence exists, and while these realities are often difficult to confront, they cannot be ignored.

I have several friends who are adoptive parents and have adopted children internationally from China, India, Africa, Ethiopia, and Russia. They, too, hold strong and deeply personal perspectives on international adoption. At times, perhaps even often, my friends and I do not see eye to eye; nevertheless, we remain friends, and I value the ability to hold space for different experiences and viewpoints.

I strongly believe in family preservation and in expanding access to resources and support services that allow children to remain with their biological families whenever possible. As an adopted person, that belief is something I cannot look past. And yet, we live in a world where adoption continues to exist and thrive, even as international adoption has declined in many places.

At times, I feel conflicted because I carry my own complicated feelings about adoption while also supporting my friends and other adoptive parents. Ultimately, my deepest concern is the well-being of children, whether they are adopted or not.

What I particularly struggle with across the landscape of adoption is judgment and the way we judge one another based on our beliefs, experiences, and perspectives around international adoption. I know I have been judged for what I believe and support. I don’t necessarily like being judged; the word itself carries such a heavy weight. And yet, I also recognize that I judge others at times. It’s a part of being human. We all do it.

I cannot control what others think or say, but I can reflect on and take responsibility for my own thoughts, words, and actions.

I have moved through a wide range of emotions connected to my adoption and my identity as an international adoptee: from curiosity and awe, to anger and self-rejection, to grief, loss, and depression, and eventually toward acceptance. Like many adoptees, ignorance is one of the things that affects me most deeply. There is still so much misunderstanding surrounding international and transracial adoption, and people can say incredibly uninformed and hurtful things.

Sometimes I can laugh it off. Other times, I feel the anger rise and need to process it with a trusted friend or another adoptee who understands. There is something deeply healing and validating about sharing our stories and realizing we are not alone in these experiences.

And what about birth mothers? Of all those within the adoption constellation, their voices and stories are often the least heard. Yet I believe many have also experienced trauma, separation, grief, loss, and judgment.

Throughout history and across the world, there have been many cases where women were pressured or coerced into relinquishing their children, including in countries such as Australia and Brazil. In some instances, those children were later adopted by families or individuals from other countries.

Societal attitudes have often placed intense judgment and stigma on unwed or single pregnant women, leaving many with limited support, resources, and choices. Their experiences are an important part of the larger adoption conversation and deserve to be heard with compassion and honesty.

What do we make of all of this? I understand that I will be judged for what I say and do. That is part of life, and I can accept it, even when it feels painful.

There are many adoptees and others within the adoption community who hold strong voices and deeply held opinions about how things should be. What I cannot accept is bullying from those who believe everyone must share the same perspective or take the same stance.

Adoptees do not all share the same point of view. Likewise, adoptees, adoptive parents, and birth mothers each carry vastly different lived experiences. What is visible on the outside is not always reflective of what is held within.

I recognize that we may not always agree, but we can still strive to respect one another and honor our own personal, and often unmatched, journeys. We can also find ways to inform and listen to those who have not walked in our shoes. I speak here as one adoptee to another.

I hope to support you wherever you are in life and wherever your journey may lead. I believe that, collectively, we can create meaningful change. We can use our voices and lived experiences to help illuminate the path forward in adoption, especially those of us who have walked through this deeply complex and often painful process.

Almost There!

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Now that I’m stepping away from the profession of psychotherapy, it feels okay to reveal my identity. Hey, I’m Mj, aka Moongirl! Before becoming a therapist, I shared photos regularly, but once I entered the field professionally, I felt the need to protect my privacy in case a client happened upon my site. It served its purpose for a long time, though I must admit it feels good to have a little more freedom now, and I hope to write more often again.

Just three more days until my resignation is official! I saw my final client today, and the rest of my time will be spent writing termination notes. Our clinical team is attending a “retreat” on Wednesday, my last day, and apparently we’re going to an escape room. I’ve never done one before, so that should be interesting. There’s something quite poetic about ending my career in mental health by trying to escape a locked room!

Despite the grief of saying goodbye to my colleagues and students, I’m beginning to accept that it’s time for me to move on. It has taken four years to fully realize that this work caused more than burnout. It unearthed pain by triggering and retriggering wounds of my own. To sit with that kind of suffering day after day eventually takes its toll. Yes, I spent years doing my own trauma work in therapy. I still don’t entirely understand why this profession affected me the way it did while other therapists with similar histories seemed less impacted. Perhaps I’m simply too sensitive — I sure as hell can’t figure it out.

In all honesty, the path of the witch, otherwise known as modern witchcraft, and spirituality have helped me heal more deeply than anything else, and for that, I’m profoundly grateful 🌙 It’s a deeply personal, lifelong spiritual and magikal journey, far removed from the way it’s often portrayed in movies. This path has guided me back to what feels most meaningful: nature, writing, music, spirituality, connection to self and others, and learning to trust myself. In many ways, it’s been a return to who I truly am.

To honor the closing of one chapter and the beginning of another, I’ll be celebrating with a new tattoo. Photos to come ✨

And I’m excited about starting a sound therapy practice, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also a little scared. I’m not sure it’s the kind of work that generates a substantial income, but to me that isn’t the only measure of a meaningful life. For now, I suppose I’ll simply see what becomes of it. Life is too short — I don’t want to waste precious time! I hope to wake up on Thursday, drink my cup of coffee slowly, and lounge in bed all morning long. That is the life.

no longer here

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the tiny murmur in my heart

became a whisper, and the whisper grew to be a wail until

the wail became a moan; the moan reminds me that you are no

longer here; the tourniquet has stilled the spill aound my grieving heart,

yet has done nothing to remove the memory of you from my pounding head,

so i will write and write another day until the moan becomes a wail,

and the wail softens into a whisper, and the whisper once again

becomes a tiny murmur, then there will be nothing but

silence to remind me that you are no longer here

m. buck


—Sometimes the feeling of loss is so visceral. Mj


Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash

goodbyes are damn hard

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Hello out there, and happy May! I hope wherever you are, the weather is sunny and warm. It’s been a rather chilly spring thus far here in Southern California. We did have a few very warm days about a month ago, but since then it’s cooled off. I’m completely enjoying it.

I’m in the process of winding things down at the university — holding final sessions with clients and preparing for my departure. I underestimated how difficult it would be to say good-bye. When I was considering resigning last year, all I could feel was the fatigue, day after day, the burnout.

It’s funny — once you decide to leave, people begin to share their appreciation for you and your work. It’s difficult to truly assess any impact you’ve made when you’re “in it.” I enjoyed my role as the Asian & Pacific Islander (API) Liaison. I deeply loved the work, and I will miss the students and director of APCC (The Asian & Pacific Cultural Center), who has become a friend.

We recently held a cultural graduation celebration for the Asian & Pacific Islander/Southwest Asian & North African students. It was a more intimate gathering, a space to truly honor the graduates in a way the larger ceremonies simply can’t. I’m sure the students felt that. One student I’ve gotten to know pretty well over the past year asked me to attend their graduation, and I was so touched. So yes, my heart is breaking a little — maybe a lot. I think I’m writing this simply to give the grief somewhere to go.

Goodbyes have always been difficult, even as a young child — adoption trauma at its finest. I remember experiencing intense anxiety when my adoptive dad, in particular, went away on business trips. It was like a panic attack laced with grief, a kind of separation anxiety that sat so heavy in my chest. I hated being left at daycare and later, elementary school. Yep, I was the screamer and had terrible stomachaches at school that couldn’t be explained.

My godmother, Janie, visited our family once when I was in elementary school. When it was time for her to return home, I felt that same profound sadness and panic. With every day, I grew increasingly anxious and sad. I sobbed in the car as my mom and I took her to the airport. I stayed there, too embarrassed to step out because I couldn’t stop crying. For days afterward, I mourned her departure. I couldn’t find the words to explain the depth of my emotions, even when my mom asked. I recognize it now as simply pain.

Moments of separation still tend to feel like a small death, not to be morbid, just honest. The intensity has softened, but the grief remains. Some trauma wounds don’t fully close, I’m convinced. It’s part of being human, and perhaps what has shaped me into the trauma therapist I’ve become.

I have facilitated groups for the past three years at APCC. It’s such a vibrant hub where API students gather to study, hang out, play mahjong, and student workers/leaders host support groups. The group I facilitate is called HAPI Hour (get it?), and we explore different topics related to API student mental health. This Wednesday is our last one… and it will be a celebration of all the fun we’ve shared. What great memories I’ll have of the center and the students who I came to adore.

With my resignation, I’ll have more time to devote to sound therapy — growing my practice and following what calls to me. Still, I’ll miss the university, my colleagues, and the students, despite the burnout and those moments I wasn’t sure I could make it through another workday. Goodbyes are damn hard.

May the coming months open into a simpler, more inspired life — one filled with creativity, and of course, magick.

Photo by Alexander Popovkin on Unsplash

Crossroads

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I did it. Yesterday, April 17, under the New Moon, I resigned from my job. The New Moon symbolizes fresh beginnings, intention-setting, planting seeds, and quiet reflection. My last day will be May 20, the end of my contract and the close of the semester. A chapter is ending.

I began this role as a university psychotherapist in June 2023, just three days after leaving my ex-husband and moving into a small apartment of my own. In many ways, that job marked the beginning of a new life. But the work proved far more demanding than I had anticipated.

During my time at the university, I came to a quiet but persistent truth: I’ve never really enjoyed being a therapist. I kept waiting for it to get better, but it never did. Instead, the work grew heavier, increasingly draining. And I’m afraid not even the summer, winter, and spring breaks could prevent burnout.

What did light me up was my role as the Asian & Pacific Islander (API) Cultural Center Liaison, work rooted in supporting the mental health and wellbeing of API students. That space felt different — lighter — and the students were an absolute joy to work with.

I believe I’m a good trauma therapist. The starry heavens know I’ve poured years and more money than I care to recount on trainings, books, and a lifetime’s worth of lived experience. It just rings hollow. That may sound harsh. I wish I’d known then what I know now. I can’t reclaim that time, but I can choose what comes next: a slower, simpler, more artful life.

I’m hoping to grow my sound therapy practice, Om Sacred Sound Journeys, and leave room for whatever else wants to emerge. I know music will be part of this next chapter and writing, too. I’m planning on beginning a new book.

My last book never found commercial success. I’ve only just started reading it for the first time since it was published in 2017. I mean, how many times did I reread, reshape, and edit the draft? The story of my first trip to Taiwan to meet my birth family marks one of the most significant chapters of my life. Publishing it wasn’t for nothing. A younger version of me wrote those pages from a very different place. And still, the emotions are just as vivid, from the search to the moment we found our way back to one another.

Earlier this week, the oracle card “to the stars and beyond” surfaced in my (tarot) reading from Rose Bae Tarot’s These Blue Bones, a deck having a moment right now. It felt like both a spark and an affirmation for my decision to resign. Lately, I find myself thinking about mortality, not out of gloom, but clarity. Time shifts as we mature. There’s less time to do what makes you happy. In this season, I get to choose how I live it. Autonomy. Personal sovereignty. Independence. Let me embody this new path, to the stars and beyond.

This song brings me back to my younger self. I’ve been especially nostalgic of late. It may not quite fit this post, but it fits my mood perfectly.

Honor Rest & Renewal on Samhain

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Today, I pause. I breathe. I rest and honor my ancestors on this blessed Samhain.

I’m grateful to have the day off – to simply be. To sit in stillness and solitude without the weight of expectation feels like a blessing in itself. The veil is thin today, and I lean into the presence of those who came before me – my birth mother and father, and the lineage of ancestors whose names I may never know. I honor them, and I honor the mystery that connects us across time and space.

Lately, life has felt full and demanding. I’m working full-time again, and though I hoped summer break would bring the restoration I so deeply needed, fatigue seems to have returned too soon. Halfway through the fall semester, I find myself wondering how to sustain balance – how to counsel others, meet the demands of my current job while not forgetting myself.

My dream remains clear: To eventually transition into full-time sound therapy work. Supporting my adult daughter these past two years has delayed that shift, yet I hold faith that in time, things will align. When she finds her footing, I’ll be able to step more fully into the work my heart longs for, creating healing spaces through resonance, stillness, and sound.

Despite the challenges, I’m proud of the small steps forward. I’ve completed my website, OM Sacred Sound Journeys, a milestone that feels like planting a tiny seed. Beginning next February, I’ll offer bi-weekly sound therapy sessions, a sacred rhythm I hope will grow into something sustainable and nourishing. 

I’m reconnecting with my musical roots, singing and playing for a herd I once worked with in equine-assisted psychotherapy and slowly returning to my guitar after years away. These small acts of reconnection remind me that healing unfolds gradually, as does starting a private practice.

Self-employment feels both thrilling and terrifying. The freedom to follow my calling is overshadowed by the very real worries of bills, rent, health insurance, and all the practicalities of life. Yet amidst uncertainty, I sense that this path is where I’m meant to go.

So today, under the quiet light of Samhain, I choose rest. I choose reflection. I choose to listen deeply to the whispers of my ancestors, to the call of my own heart, and to stillness. May this season bring renewal, remembrance, and faith in what is yet to come.

Photo by Catherine Crawford on Unsplash

Summering

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Four more weeks of summering. I’ve been preoccupied with the impending return to work and have to remind myself to be here now, enjoy the time I have left on break. Still time to relax and explore. Such a sharp contrast from the previous months.

Orchid Quartet

I went to a Candlelight Concert on The Queen Mary the other night. I’m so glad I did! Female group, Orchid Quartet, performed Metallica. There were some diehard Metallica fans hooping and hollering throughout the concert. I love Metallica too and had a front row seat! It was an intimate, cozy event. I felt called to return to my musical roots. Music, my first love. Probably my last! I regret selling my digital piano, but there is truly no room in my tiny space for something that large. I’ll have to settle for picking up my guitar and ukulele. I’m always on the hunt for new music and inspiring artists.

We were permitted to videorecord the last two numbers. Pieces performed included many of Metallica’s greatest hits, including Enter Sandman, Nothing Else Matters, and Master of Puppets. And they did a lovely cover of Whiskey in the Jar. I liked how the quartet were so interactive with the audience. It was all great fun. I uploaded the video I took of Nothing Else Matters below. It was so much better live, of course. Hope to see more of Orchid Quartet in the future and attend more Candlelight Concerts! I got a groovy t-shirt to support Orchid Quartet and remember what a fun time I had. Enjoy!

Happy November 1st

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Hi out there. Hope this post finds you well. I’m enjoying a day off of work, as I celebrated Samhain with a friend last nite. We honored our ancestors, practiced some divination, had some drinks. It was a fun, magickal evening.

I recently connected with a shaman who I’ll begin working with soon. She spoke of a strong ancestral presence upon our first conversation. I was never interested in my ancestry until I found my adoption contract, hidden in my adoptive parents’ attic for who knows how long. It found its way to me immediately following my adoptive mother’s funeral, as though my mom was saying, “I want you to have this now.” The contract revealed things my adoptive parents hid from me and likely falsified. So many things were untrue. My adoptive mom made sure that all ties to my birth country were severed. On the rare occasion that I brought up questions, she became weirdly paranoid, asking who put me up to asking such questions. I didn’t pursue it. It’s been 12 years since I visited the country of my birth, Taiwan. I’ve wanted to return but life happens and so many things have gotten in the way. My hope is to return sometime next year. And I hope that in working with this shaman, I’ll connect with my birth mother and perhaps other ancestors.

I haven’t written any poems lately. We’re so fatigued at work from a very busy fall semester and previously, a not so slow summer. Fatigue has a way of crushing creativity. I’m glad to know it’s not just me but my colleagues also feel it, the burnout. Secondly, I go back and read some of my poems and think, this is such shitty poetry. What possessed me to write poems? On the other hand, it was therapeutic while I went through a divorce. Freedom. It feels good. Yet there are some days when the loss comes up so strong it literally catches my breath, and I cannot believe where I am, how I made it out, what I’m doing. It’s not so much the loss of a marriage but what I left behind…my dog, my piano, my music books, the little nest I built that was home, etc (I will retrieve those things when I have a permanent place). Even the dissolution of the most toxic marriage is felt as a loss. I don’t know how else to explain it. I have felt the gamut of emotion, sadness, anger, anxiety, worry, hopelessness, uncertainty. At times, I sometimes still feel transient, displaced. No one would know that I’m grieving. I come across like I have my shit together (most days). And on we go.

Samhain lasts till sundown this evening; the veil between this world and the “Otherworld” remains thinnest. So maybe some spellwork today and divination. Certainly, pondering my ancestral roots, the birth parents I never knew and honoring my birth mother in particular. Wishing you all a very blessed day. I thank you for stopping by and hope to catch up on reading your posts soon. May you enjoy the turning of the season!

With You by Kalandra. To my soulmate wherever you may be…Honestly, we have multiple soulmates, but this song is so beautiful I’m sending it out…lolol…And I’m currently obsessed with this band.

Photo by Daizy Isumi on Unsplash

new beginnings

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Can you believe we’re almost midway through June? Is it just me or does time really fly?

I’ve had the past 10 days free of work, frolicking on the beach and house hunting. It’s been exceedingly lovely to rest and restore. I so enjoyed my time off from work and spending time with friends. It was much needed. I don’t think I could have worked another day. In the span of 10 days, I found a new home rental that I’ll be moving into in just a matter of weeks. Wow. It is a time of action with the waxing crescent moon, so I guess the timing is fitting. It feels as though a lifetime occurred in the last 10 days 

I’ve gone back and forth about this new home, questioning whether it’s the right move. It’s small, just the right size, very nice, and has cottage-y vibes. I adore the house. The homeowner I experienced as warm and approachable. There’s a small backyard with string lights and enough room to move in my baby grand piano. So what’s the hang up? It’s just further away from the beach, where I’ve lived for the past year. A close friend and I have lived walking distance from each other’s apartment, and I will truly miss that as well as walking across the street to the beach. The new house is in a somewhat mixed neighborhood, meaning it’s in a relatively safe area, but my first impression was, it’s kinda “sketchy.” I keep reminding myself that the home has a backyard. I’ll be able to keep my sweet pup for longer periods of time. I think she’ll feel more comfortable in the space and will have a backyard to explore. I share her with my ex. She loves her doggie door and big backyard at what used to be the home we all shared. It was one of the hardest things ever to leave her.

Change. Change is hard. So many changes in the last year. More changes to come. I should be celebrating, yet I feel a little sad about leaving this space, and ultimately, endings. It’s the end of a chapter. I wanted to stay close, but home properties are less available and more expensive. Life is complicated, messy. How I wish it weren’t so. I will miss this area very much, despite crazy apartment living and crazy neighbors. For many months, it’s been a safe haven, a place to heal.

Why move? I’ve asked myself a million times, weighing the pros and cons obsessively. My lease is up on June 12th, so it seemed an appropriate time. Moreso, I’ve been longing for a home with a backyard for my dog, space for my baby grand, and privacy.

There is much to love about the new house, and I’m grateful that the owner chose me to rent to. The beach is about a 10-minute drive south. Change and transition, nevertheless, are hard, even when it’s for the best. I get attached to things and people. I don’t want to lose what I’ve worked hard to attain. My higher self tells me it’s a time of rebirth, but I seem to be gritting my teeth.

So, cheers to new adventures and new beginnings. If I could trust that the Universe has my back, I suppose transition would feel easier. But trust does not come easy. So be it. Let the packing begin. Once settled, I’m certain I’ll fall in love with the house, and who knows, maybe the neighborhood.

Been obsessed with The Marias latest album, Submarine. No One Noticed seems to describe my mood lately. 

Photo by Giulia Bertelli on Unsplash

ROC national day

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Taiwan, The Republic of China (ROC), celebrates National Day, otherwise known as Double Ten Day, on October 10th every year. Taipei, Taiwan, is my place of birth. I was adopted as an infant by an American family, and consequently, lost all connection to Taiwan and my first/birth family. That changed, however, over the Lunar New Year of 2012, at which time I traveled to Taipei to reunite with my first family including my two older sisters and brother, my uncle, niece and nephew, and close family friends. Sadly, I know very little about Taiwan’s history and had even less knowledge of Double Ten Day . So I messaged my oldest sister to learn more about its significance. I’m so glad I did, and my sister seemed pleased that I wanted to know more about Taiwan’s history. So I share what I learned now with my fellow Taiwanese adoptees.

Double Day Ten in Mandarin is 雙十節. 雙 means double or two; 十 means ten; 節 means day. Here is the history of Double Ten that my sister shared with me:

The Wuchang Uprising in China occurred at the beginning of the Revolution of 1911, and the Qing Dynasty, China’s last imperial dynasty, was overthrown by Chinese revolutionaries. The Republic of China was subsequently established on January 1, 1912. Since the first day of the Wuchang Uprising occurred on October 10, 1911, October 10 is commemorated as the anniversary of the founding of the Republic of China. My sister shared that there is not as much importance attached to Double Ten Day as in years past. She remembers that, at one time, there were many activities on National Day, and the whole country was joyous. The national flag was flown all over the sky, and national flags were placed everywhere on the streets and lanes, fluttering beautifully. There was a flag-raising ceremony at the Presidential Plaza at six o’clock in the morning, and during the day, the heads of state, officials from various ministries, and invited international guests gathered in the stands to watch a military parade. The Air Force and Army presented majestic shows. It was a very popular holiday, and there were numerous performances by various groups celebrating various folk customs. What everyone looked forward to most was the fireworks at night. Colorful fireworks were placed in the square in front of the Presidential Palace, bringing on cheers and applause. Everyone enthusiastically participated in the parade, holding a small flag and walking around for a long time following the performances. My sister said that In recent years, there have been firework displays at Taipei 101 and Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall. She shared that these are the memories of older generations, and the jubilance once felt as a nation on this day has diminished. Now there are different kinds of activities on Double Ten in Taiwan but it is just a holiday without the same jubilance, and few young people pay attention to its meaning.

I asked about the Double Ten flag and Taiwan’s national flag. My sister explained, our national flag is based on the blue sky with a white sun created by the revolutionary martyr, Lu Haodong, and the founding father, Sun Yat-sen, with red as the background color. The 12 rays of light on the sun represent the 12 months of the year and the 12 traditional Chinese hours in a day (each ray equals two hours). In 1928, the red and blue flag with the white sun officially became the national flag of the Republic of China. The white flag with the double ten red Chinese characters is the flag that represents Double Ten Day.

I appreciate this history lesson about Taiwan from my sister. I hope it has meaning for you, too. There is still so much to learn and know. Incidentally, my daughter’s birthday is on October 10, to which my sister said, she has lucky blessing!

My memoir!

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Cover

Beyond Two Worlds: A Taiwanese-American Adoptee’s Memoir & Search for Identity is now live! If you have not yet purchased your copy, don’t delay. I have a few books left, and signed copies can be purchased right here on my website.  Just click on Shop to order. Kindle and hardcover editions are available via my author page at Amazon, and you can also find the book at Barnes & Noble, and Indiebound.org.

If you enjoyed reading the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon, or wherever you purchased your copy. Unfortunately, I am unable to ship internationally; however, those copies can be ordered through Amazon and Barnes & Noble online. To learn more about the book and to read an excerpt, click here, and to read reviews, click here. Thank you for supporting Beyond Two Worlds.

Happy reading!

Pre-Order Your Book

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Hello out there! I’m very happy to announce that you can now pre-order your copy of my new book, Beyond Two Worlds: A Taiwanese-American Adoptee’s Memoir & Search for Identity. Please spread the word and encourage your friends and family to purchase their book on the Beyond Two Worlds website. Just click on the “Shop” tab above, which will direct you to PayPal. All books purchased through my website will be signed and autographed.

About the Book:

Born in Taipei, Taiwan, Marijane was adopted by an American military family at four months old. She grew up in a middle class neighborhood where hers was the only Asian face amongst a majority of white.

Raised to believe she was Vietnamese and Japanese, she never doubted what her adoptive parents told her, until one day, she found her lost adoption papers. This discovery unloosed secrets that had been buried for decades, causing her to question her own identity and origins. With brave determination, Marijane set out on a journey to reconstruct her past and resurrect a birth heritage that had long been forsaken. Her journey took her halfway across the world to eventually reunite with her birth family.

Beyond Two Worlds is a poignant telling of one woman’s quest for identity and belonging despite insurmountable odds, and will be of help to those seeking connection to their original families.

Coming Summer 2017!

Read an excerpt from the book here.

transracial parenting

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When I was a very young girl, I didn’t think much about being adopted. I didn’t think about the physical differences between my white parents and I. Since my parents and almost everyone around me were white, I thought of myself in the same way – white. This became a problem when I entered kindergarten and realized that my physical appearance was different than the other kids around me. As I’ve mentioned in other posts, I grew up in a predominantly white area, Bossier City, Louisiana. Our neighbours were mostly white, middle-class families. There were African American families, too, but I knew that I wasn’t black. There was prejudice and discrimination all around me. I was too young to understand the implications of such bias. In my family, we never talked about race, my race, my adoptive parents’ race, racism, prejudice, etc. But I perceived very early that whites were “superior” to other races. It makes me very sad that such racism existed (and still does) where I grew up and, furthermore, within my own family. I often wondered how my adoptive mother felt about me when I heard her make racist remarks toward others of a different race. It made me struggle and lose respect for my mom. I thought silently that she was a hypocrite.

At my current internship, I spend time with families who adopt children transracially through the child welfare system. These are typically white families who adopt African American, biracial, or Hispanic children. Maybe it’s me, but I am always surprised at how little time is spent discussing with adoptive parents issues of race, culture, and identity. Couples in the process of adopting seem to minimize the importance of these issues often thinking that because the child(ren) who will be placed with them permanently are so young, they have time to plan how to manage such issues. I would dare say that parents of internationally adopted children receive even less education on race, culture, and identity (less overall required training in general) than families who adopt through child welfare. Prospective foster and adoptive parents must complete a 10-week training at many Arizona adoption agencies called PS-MAPP (Model Approach to Partnerships in Parenting). Arizona is a little more diverse than Louisiana, but still mostly White at 84.3% of the population.

I would hope that White adoptive parents would want their adopted black or Hispanic children to grow up with a strong sense of identity and connection to their cultural heritage. I personally believe that, in the best interest of the child, children should be placed with families of the same ethnic/racial background. Unfortunately, there are few, if any, African American and Hispanic families who adopt children from the child welfare system, at least here in Arizona. I wish that we could recruit families of African American and Hispanic descent who are financially able, willing, and have the emotional/psychological capacity to adopt children through child welfare. I do believe it’s better for a child to be adopted into a family capable of providing the kind of love and care necessary regardless of race rather than languish in the system.

We would like to think that racism does not exist. We would like to believe that love is enough. Some would like to embrace the idea of being colorblind – that we are all human beings and that the color of one’s skin doesn’t matter. But in our society it does matter, and being colorblind does not really work. Racism is alive and well, granted that some areas of the country hold to racist views more than others. There are potential risks inherent in transracial adoption. Adoptive parents must develop cultural competence and the tools necessary to help their adopted child(ren) manage and integrate cultural differences. There are children’s books that discuss race at a level meant for very young children. Family discussions held regularly on issues of race and culture are another way to prepare children for racism and/or discrimination and to help children develop a sense of ethnic pride. Proactive is better than reactive. Studies show that adoptive parents who demonstrate a high regard  toward their adopted child’s race foster within their child(ren) a greater sense of ethnic pride.

Transracially adopted persons will explore their ethnicity sooner or later. Familial support, especially during the adolescent years, will help transracially adopted children develop a greater sense of self and ethnic identity. It may seem insignificant, but how race, culture, and identity are negotiated in a transracially adopted child’s developmental years will undoubtedly affect his or her psychological and emotional adjustment across the lifetime.

a whole new world

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I have become intrigued by everything Asian, specifically things related to Chinese culture and to Taiwan. It surprises me how strongly I feel about this. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become a little too obsessed. Am I going overboard? Is this a mid-life crisis? Have other transracially adopted adults gone through this kind of searching later in life? When I explain to friends and family that I’m taking Mandarin lessons, going to Taiwan soon, and really exploring my cultural roots, their reactions are often encouraging, but I don’t think they quite get it. Perhaps they believe that this is just a phase I’m going through similar to a kid going through adolescence. It has, after all, taken half of my lifetime to get to that point of wanting to learn more of my cultural heritage. Twenty years ago I would never have thought twice about pursuing a search for my biological sisters, planning a trip to Taiwan, or learning Mandarin. There was no hint of a desire whatsoever.

I am happy that this new chapter of my life has begun. I’m not sure where it will all lead, but it’s an adventure. Recently, I’ve been watching a Taiwanese TV drama called, “Meteor Garden.” I had a hard time getting into it at first because it’s targeted for a younger audience, but I must say I got sucked in. I’ve begun to pick up on a few Mandarin words and phrases here and there. I have a growing list of Taiwanese dramas that I want to watch! I’ve also been listening to K-Pop (Korean pop music) and Taiwanese pop music lately. I’ve been enjoying it and am getting acquainted with popular Taiwanese singers and bands, like Jay Chou and Jerry Yan. I’m sure there are a lot more great artists out there.

I still have many questions about my adoption. One thing that still mystifies me is why my adoptive parents told me that I was Japanese and Vietnamese. My birth parents were both from China and moved to Taiwan where I was born and adopted. When and why they moved from China to Taiwan, I’m not exactly sure. I would like to know what happened to the adoption agency, The Family Planning Association of China, as it no longer exists. I’d like to know if Tze-kuan Shu Kan, the director of the agency, is still living. My adoptive mom also kept a list of orphanages in the Taipei area. I wonder if she visited all those orphanages before finding me? I would like to visit one of those orphanages in Taipei while I’m there in January. Of course, to find one of my biological sisters and meet would be beyond wonderful and would most likely lead to some of the answers to my questions. Maybe going to Taiwan is just the beginning. I hope that more doors open up. I don’t think that this is just a phase. I think it’s a growing appreciation for my birth culture, an opportunity to explore it and expand my identity. So, I may come off a little obsessed, but it really is a whole new world.

my childhood home

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my childhood home

I got the call from the realtor this morning as I drove up I-17 to Phoenix. My parents’ home will finally be listed for sale this Saturday. The realtor and I exchanged a few words, shared a few laughs then hung up. Since 2008, the succession of my parents’ home has been caught up in complicated family issues. Part of me feels relieved that we’ve finally reached this point, and yet another part of me feels a great sense of loss. There’s just something about saying goodbye to the house you grew up in when there are so many memories attached. It was a small brown and white house in a subdivision called, Sun City. The streets were named after planets, and most families in the neighborhood at that time were military ones. Everyone knew each other; it felt like a real community.

I remember the first time we visited the home. My parents were so excited about purchasing a brand new house after having lived on the military base at Barksdale for some time. It must have been around 1971 – Brady Bunch era – and homes were still being constructed in the subdivision. I remember wiggling my toes through the lime green shag carpet and turning cartwheels in the wide-open space of the family room. Out back, there was a patio and yard large enough to fit a swimming pool and swing set. The family room walls were wood-paneled, and the marbled formica countertops in the kitchen matched the lime green carpet. Not real stylish by today’s standards. Down the long hallway were three bedrooms. It wasn’t a very big house, but big enough for a family of three and house pets.

After settling in, my parents had a swimming pool built in the backyard. The sound of drills and other motorized equipment woke me up in the mornings, and I’d stand on my bed to peer out the window inspecting the daily progress. It was like waiting for Christmas. I eagerly anticipated the day that I could finally go swimming! When, at last, that day arrived, I got into the pool and fearfully clung to the edge for weeks. My mom immediately signed me up for swim lessons at the local YMCA, which fixed my fear of water pretty quick. Soon I was swimming like a little fish, although I hated my swim lessons and swimming laps every morning. My dad used to throw me up in the air like a cannonball while Mom lounged and watched us from a fold up lawn chair, the kind that left crisscrosses on the backs of your legs. In addition to swimming, I also spent a lot of evenings playing in the front yard with all the other kids from the neighborhood when it was still safe to do so. We’d play swing the statue, red rover, and red light/green light until the sun began to fade and our moms called us back in for the night. What good times those were.

My dad loved gardening and planted a large garden full of vegetables in the backyard behind the pool. We had fresh cucumbers, okra, tomatoes, and zucchini. My mom liked to make homemade ice cream with fresh peaches from our peach tree. I’d watch her pour the rock salt into the ice cream machine and then peer through the plastic top as the mixing arm swirled the ice cream around. What delight. In the mornings, I got used to waking up to the rumble of B-52’s revving up their engines at Barksdale Air Force base. It grew to be a comfort. I walked to Sun City Elementary School every morning and back home every afternoon with my niece or a friend unless it was too rainy or cold outside.

My parents owned that house for 37 years. The next time I visit Louisiana, the house will belong to some else, a stranger. For memory’s sake, I’ll take a spin down Pluto Drive just to check it out. I’ve heard that childhood homes don’t hold up to the memory once it passes on to new homeowners. New homeowners often remodel, the appearance changes, and the warm feelings you’d expect to emerge somehow don’t. Hmm…I wonder? In any case, I spent most of my childhood in that old house. I don’t think I could ever forget that.