Adoption – Meeting biological mother for the first time.

Joeri (Kim Wan Suk) Kraaijestein, 15-07-1974, The Netherlands

My full name is Joeri Kim Wan Suk Kraaijestein, and my name gives away that I am originally from South Korea. When I was two years old, my birth father left my birth mother with her two young children. Poor as she was, she could not take care of us and left us at an orphanage. I became a Dutch citizen when my birth sister and I were adopted in 1976 by our (Dutch) parents.

My adoption was never a topic for me. It was for my sister, though. When she went to South Korea to meet our birth mother (our birth father had passed away already) for the first time, I was not ready to join her. Perhaps it was not on my mind because I didn’t know what to do with it. Still, as time passed, my sister told me that our birth mother’s dying wish was to meet me one day. It made me reconsider, and I realized it was a small effort for me to fulfill her lifetime dream, so the idea grew to meet my birth mother for the “first” time.

In 2005, it was time for me to meet my roots. I took an airplane from Amsterdam Schiphol airport to Seoul Incheon International Airport. A flight of 10 hours on which I was more excited than I thought. During the flight, I played many scenarios in my head, and I tried to imagine “What will my birth mother look like?” or “How will it feel to be back?”

The flight itself was a sneak preview of what was coming. Although my appearance is 100% Korean, I was not used to being around so many Koreans. Everywhere I looked, I saw the same black hair and brown eyes, the smell of Korean food, and the sound of a familiar language that I could not understand. I looked through the airplane window, lost in my thoughts, with South Korea closer every minute.

I felt at home immediately upon my first step on the ground of Seoul Incheon International Airport. This feeling surprised me and was something I had never felt before. For the “first” time, I was back in my birth country. During the first five days, I explored Seoul as a tourist. It was an incredible feeling. I walked around as if I had never left the place. People saw me as one of them. So many impressions, so little time.

Then, it was time to meet my birth mother. I would stay with her for another five days. A cab driver brought me to a small house in a tiny village. An older man opened the door and smiled. He was excited; I couldn’t understand a word as he spoke Korean. He was the new husband of my birth mother. She was not at home and arrived in full panic mode minutes later. It was just like in the movies, surrealistic. Everything passed by in slow motion, and it was like I was the “lead actor” and spectator simultaneously.

A small Korean woman approached me hysterically. She screamed, cried, and hugged me. She fell to her knees, still crying and screaming, and I let it happen. I stood there like a statue, trying to control every emotion I had, and I didn’t even know why. I had imagined this first meeting a thousand times and was still unprepared. I was standing there with my birth mother on her knees at my feet. It felt uncomfortable, and my first thought was to run like Roadrunner, but I knew I had to play my role. This visit was not about me. I agreed with myself it was all about her. She held me as if she would never let me go, and I stood there as if I would never move again. I tried to relax, and I tried to regulate my breath. From the outside, I was calm, yet I was in a traffic jam of emotions on the inside. I thought, “Is this normal?”. I didn’t know the answer. I kept telling myself: “Breath in, breath out.”

My birth mother kept me close, tried to make me feel comfortable, and cared for me as best as possible. She insisted I sleep next to her the first night, and I did. It was an authentic Korean bed, meaning we slept on the floor on a one-centimeter-thick sleeping mat. It was one of the most confusing experiences of my life. I was lying on the floor beside her. She was still an unfamiliar woman in a “new” country, and at the same time, everything was familiar and new. I am used to sounds and smells, but these were different, keeping me awake. While my birth mother was asleep and snoring, I couldn’t. My head was spinning with all the emotions. Eventually, sleep caught me, but my Korean journey continued in my dreams. I was restless and woke up after an hour with the vision of my birth mother hugging me still fresh in my memory. It was bizarre. Sometimes I wonder about the dimensions of life and how they are connected because, at that same time, she turned around and put her arms around me, hugging me for all the lost years. My emotions went to the next level, which I didn’t know existed. I kept telling myself: “Breath in, breath out.”

My birth mother lives in the countryside in a simple house, one hour by public transport from Seoul in a small village. There is warm water and electricity, but the toilet is a hole in the ground outside of the house. She showed me around, proudly introducing me to her neighbors. One day, one of her (wealthy) neighbors invited us to come over for dinner and have some karaoke afterward. That day was the first time I ate “bulgogi,” a Korean-style dish made of thin, marinated slices of beef grilled on a barbecue or a stove-top griddle with many side dishes. It was delicious, and it is still one of my favorites today. Food and having dinner together always bring people closer, which was the same for us. My tension of the first day and night disappeared. I was able to make jokes, I reached out to her more proactively, and it felt great. We had some laughs, we talked a bit, and it was incredible to experience how well you can understand each other if you want, and of course, with the help of a dictionary, “Dutch and Korean for Dummies.” Maybe unnecessary to say that she didn’t speak Dutch or English and that I didn’t speak Korean either. After dinner, it was time for some karaoke. Our host has his karaoke studio in the basement.

I am a terrible singer and don’t particularly appreciate standing before an audience. I have successfully avoided this combination during my entire life in the Netherlands, but this time I knew I had to stretch my limits once more. Indeed after a couple of songs from others, my birth mother had a special request for me to sing her a song. How could I refuse? With the nerves all over my body, I picked a piece carefully, took the microphone, and sang, “Que sera, sera…” In front of my birth mother and many Koreans, in a basement, somewhere in the countryside of South Korea, I was singing this song while I told myself, “breath in, breath out.”

I have learned much about my birth country and its customs, which I appreciate more than I thought. Koreans must know how to address you, and they assess this by asking you how much you earn and what kind of education you have finished successfully. Food is important. They will take good care of you, and they enjoy eating together. Nevertheless, eating is more functional than cozy. Celebrating my presence with the entire birth family over dinner in a restaurant in Seoul was done within an hour. I learned in practice that it is not appropriate for a Korean man to address an unfamiliar woman in the street. In my case, I was trying to ask her for directions, and she pushed me away like I had some nasty disease. Koreans are disciplined and obedient to regulations, like traffic and the “clean country policy.” The longer I stayed in Korea, the more it felt like home.

A question that always pops up is, “what defines a person more, nature or nurture?” I wondered whether I would find the answer in South Korea. Do I look like my birth mother or the Koreans in general? The answer was and is challenging to discover. I like to play card games with my friends and have a few laughs back home, and I can easily take the initiative. One afternoon in South Korea, my birth mother invited some neighborhood women to play cards. They sat together on the ground, in a circle, playing a card game for little money. She made jokes, entertained, cared for the group, and was excited to play. I saw this from a distance. Time stood still for a moment, and my heart danced in my mind. It was like looking in a mirror.

These five days with my birth mother started slow and continued like a Hollywood movie. Never a dull moment, full of emotions and with the speed of light. Everything felt like a second home in all her dimensions. From the house, I saw the rice fields, the trees, and the white herons, I smelled the Kimchi, and I felt the care and love of my birth mother. The last evening something changed. My birth mother realized that the next day I would leave, and her joy had already replaced sorrow. The next day, she kept me closer to the airport. She held my hand even tighter, and the tears arrived in her eyes. We had to say goodbye just in front of the gate at the airport. She tried to control her emotions for a long time but let everything out when the final moment was there. Tears from deep in her heart surfaced via her eyes on my shoulders. She screamed, hugged me, and spoke to me in Korean. Translations were not required to understand her meaning. Saying goodbye was more or less the same as saying hello. It was surrealistic. Everything went in slow motion, and it was like I was the “lead actor” and spectator simultaneously. I stood there as if I would never move again. I tried to relax, and I tried to regulate my breath. I kept telling myself: “Breath in, breath out.”

The airplane took off while I was utterly exhausted and paralyzed by all the emotions of these ten days and, in particular, the events of the last hours. Sitting in the airplane chair was the first time in ten days of emotional immersion that I could let go of playing the role of the “lost son.” I stored my own needs for a while with love and pleasure. While I did that, I put much of my much-needed (Joeri) time aside to be there for her. Only now was room for my comfort zone, pace, and way to deal with all the emotions and experiences. It made me fall even deeper into the hole of exhaustion. I couldn’t move. I could hardly think. I felt it was all worth it.

I realized how naive I was when I boarded in Amsterdam. My visit to my birth mother and country was not only a gift to her. It is one of the most completest gifts I have ever had. Without disrespecting all my other life experiences, this is a precious one. It taught me much about my birth family, family, and myself. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.