Sitting in the van I became increasingly panicked. I remember it just hurting, my chest swelling up, tightening, and straining to let oxygen into my deflated lungs. I was looking without seeing, hearing without listening. Why had I thought that meeting them would be easy? I was wrong.
When I was sixteen, my mom, my cousin and I traveled to Vietnam to meet my newly located birth family. When we pulled into the brick factory where they lived and worked, I was trembling inside. "Are you okay?" my mom asked, the grip of her hand reassuring me that she still was there. I took a deep breath, but I knew that as soon as I stepped out of the van, there would be no turning back and my life would change forever.
Inside the factory, five of my siblings were standing with my birth father in anticipation. Our resemblance was remarkable; I felt like I was looking at myself in a mirror. I carefully noticed little things: I bite my nails like my birth father, my ear lobes curl up like my older brother's, and my notably short stature easily matches that of my sisters. My birth sisters entwined their arms in mine and lead me to their home. It was good that they were holding onto me, because my legs felt wobbly, my vision blurred by tears. When I arrived, a small woman eagerly reached out toward me. Her worn face dissolved in anguish. She embraced me. Time stops. Little of her fits the image I had always held in my mind. She appeared older, wearier. I had this unsettling urge to pull away. The countless questions I had are lost in the language barrier separating me from my birth family. But it doesn't matter; I couldn't have voiced them anyway.
My emotions were so conflicted. I didn't know whether to feel guilt, because I have a great life in a comfortable home, in a beautiful town with a loving family. In stark contrast, my birth family lives in a meager 10 foot square concrete windowless home, in a brick yard. Or should I feel resentment? They denied me my culture and place as the youngest child of this big family.
I learned my birthmother had a stroke after giving birth to me and was paralyzed. My birth father tearfully explained that it was he who ultimately made the decision that if I wasn't brought to the orphanage, I would starve. Everyone is crying now. My birth mother holds my arm tightly. My sisters brush my hair. My brothers stand protectively nearby. It was simultaneously beautiful and heartbreaking.
When the visit comes to an end, the tearful goodbyes are more painful than the initial meeting. As I finally step into the van to leave and the door starts to close, my birth father lunges forward to give me one last tight, tearful hug. This image of him will be forever seared in my mind.
I was hoping to have every question answered, all my doubts and anger organized and stored away in the deep corners of my mind. Instead, my emotions are now more jumbled and I feel so very guilty. Every time I try to organize this chaos, to make coherent sense of my feelings, I struggle. Nobody can relate to what I'm going through. I want to be guided through this. Yet I know that can't happen. All adoption stories are different. I am alone with mine.
Someday I will be thankful that I had opportunity to meet my first family and understand the difficult choice they had to make. Someday this entrenched guilt will dissipate and I will be able to embrace the choices made on my behalf. Someday it won't hurt so very much.
