I was almost Home

I remember the game Sorry! When rain spoiled our middle school P.E. class from passing time on the outdoor track, ostensibly exercising, my friends and I would crowd around the board. Arms outstretched, blocking the others from interference, we would gleefully bat the other’s piece skittering back to Start. The closer those pieces were to making it Home, the more raucous the bump would be, sometimes skipping right off the game board altogether. It’s funny this should be the image that comes to mind when thinking of my latest attempt to register my birth in Korea.

I awoke early last Wednesday morning (as the appointment to register was rescheduled) to no updates, no email from my lawyer, nor messages from 엄마 (umma, birth mother) or 이모 (emo, maternal aunt). It was my first clue. I immediately messaged 이모 via KakaoTalk and promptly got her response, “일어났어” (you’re up). No question mark, a mere acknowledgement that it was now a decent hour of the day here. Then she gave me the answer. Unsuccessful.

It’s odd to say now that I didn’t cry or feel despair. I went about my morning, almost like normal. Phone in hand, waiting, I plodded down the steep stairs, hugged my husband good morning, and took my first sip of coffee while sitting on the loveseat in our living room.

“They said, ‘No.'”

No preface. He already understood.

“What did they say this time?” he asked.

This time, it was an issue with the noncertified copy of my original birth certificate. The very same document that has been presented at every single prior three attempts without a problem.

After finishing my coffee, prior to logging into work, I opened a Safari window. I guessed I had probably already done this numerous times, but what’s another check, right? I searched for the words adoptee, original birth certificate, and the name of the state where I was born. And there on their website for vital records for adoptees was my answer.

I scrolled past the list of eligible applicants and the note to “complete as much information as you may know.” The first listing under what adoptees will receive was “Noncertified Copy of Original Birth Record.” So not the original birth certificate, simply a document listing information that hasn’t been requested to be redacted by birth parents such as birth name, birth date, county of birth, and name(s) and age(s) of birth parents.

The full update from my new lawyer pinged in my inbox late last Wednesday evening. The exact sticking point for the administrative office staff was the note on the document, “This document is not valid for any legal purpose.”

My lawyer proposed petitioning the court rather than going back to the Seoul administrative office for another attempt. They couldn’t say how long this process would take. They noted another successful case that resolved within one month, but that adoptee had done a DNA test with their birth mother, which expedited the process. A DNA test conducted in Korea was not out of the question in my case either, they said.

As I considered my options staring at the screen, a different email from a different time blurred my view. The previous lawyer had sent similar emails. I rifled through the different reasons for each refusal after each prior attempt. He sent an email after the first try, stating the official “described the case as particularly difficult” and “was unable to process the request herself.” No mention of issues with the noncertified copy, merely too complex.

The second email detailed new issues. The officials in the Seoul administrative office could find no record of my birth parents’ marriage in their 제적등본 (family registry). Never mind that I had a copy of it in my records that 엄마 had printed for me the December prior. In order to prove this fact, I attached a scan of the document in my possession.

The office staff also noted that I may need to legally annul my adoption. What did that even mean?

Each issue was addressed. Each missing document was searched for, found, and supplied. But my original birth certificate? Impossible.

The hand is moving in slow motion. I know I’m going to get knocked right off the game board, but I’m frozen. All the while howling in my mind, I was almost Home.

It’s not enough. The consolation prizes of relearning my language here and the eating of Korean food there. It’s nowhere near enough.

I am American-made through sweet tea and catching lightning bugs in glass jars on summer evenings. Saturday college football game days. And the pledge of allegiance to start the school day.

And through eyes pulled back. Flat face. But where are you really from?

I’m also born of Korea, forged by my given name, 노진 (盧珍). Nourished with 김치 (kimchi), 미역국, and 보리차. Soothed by 싹싹 내려라, 엄마 손이 약손이다 for every tummy ache. Anchored by 아리랑 (arirang), such that I plucked the notes on a piano or keyboard throughout my life. And though interrupted, 예절 in my bones and sinew.

In the late hours of the night, when everyone in my house is asleep, and the stillness settles me into my loveseat, I can feel it. 그립다. 한국을 많이 그립나 봐.