(Korea, part two)
My daughter had a friend who is a Korean native call her bio mother's phone in Seoul and tell her of her arrival. Her mother burst into tears, said she's meet her at the airport and would take care of her during her week-long visit.
When my daughter arrived in Seoul, she was greeted by fifteen relatives, ranging from her mother and sisters to her grandfather and toddler nieces. They stayed in a "wealthy" aunt's two bedroom apartment that week, where she slept on a mat between her mother and next oldest sister. The family spoke no English, though there was a brother-in-law who'd taken college English and who was available to translate in the evenings.
There was an enormous inventory-taking of sorts: whose eyes did my daughter have? Whose nose? Did the birth mark she had on her foot match any of her sisters'? They were intrigued by her perfect teeth and she explained through the interpreter that she'd had 5 years of orthodontia. Impressed, they had her show her teeth to all family and friends who dropped by.
She made an instant connection with her maternal grandfather, who got up early each morning to prepare her special treats of fruit, as my daughter wasn't used to the garlicky, spicy Korean food. He'd hold her hand and talk to her in Korean, reassuring her.
They took her to the DMZ, pantomiming their wish that the two Koreas would one day be united, then to a Buddhist temple. There, through an exchange with her closet sister via a pocket translator, she learned her family was Buddhist. They taught her how to worship at the temple, some simple prayers.
She was taken to visit her grandmother, who was bedridden. On the walls, which were covered in family photos, was every one of the photos we'd sent through the years: trick-or-treating at age seven, dance lessons, eighth grade graduation. They showed her professional family photos taken for her grandmother's sixtieth birthday. In two of them, the oldest son carried his father, then his mother, on his back, piggyback style. My daughter asked what that signified and was told it symbolized the son's willingness to care for his parents through their lives. She crossed the room, motioned to her grandfather to get on her back, and walked him around the room.
Not everything went smoothly: She was never left alone. Even in the shower, her mother would knock on the door insistently, begging to wash her. In the street, her hand was always held like that of a young child. In stores, anything she touched to look at was automatically bought by family members and proudly presented to her later that evening. She was weighed every other day, her mother and sisters clappng when she lost weight.
My daughter called daily, telling me of each day's adventures with great enthusiasm, until the next-to-last day. She'd been presented with two boxes of items she'd unthinkingly touched at a market. Her frustration about not being able to communicate with them had reached a flash point. And her mother was knocking at the door each time she used the bathroom. "Get me out of here, Mom. I want to come home." I could hear her mother's concerned voice in the background, very likely worried that she was ill, not understanding the nature of the problem. I felt very very far away.
She pulled through the last twenty-four hours, the extended family dinner and final gift-giving so much a part of Korean culture. The entire family saw her off at the airport, her mother breaking down completely, held up by her sisters, her grandfather trying to wipe away tears unnoticed.
The flight to New York took twelve hours. She came home and slept for almost a day. The second day, the phone rang. It was her grandfather, who spoke to her in rapid Korean for three or four minutes. At the end, he said "Kansamnida, Eun Jin" (thank you, Eun Jin). She replied "Kansamnida, halaboji" (thank you, grandfather.)" and they hung up. |
