Sometimes, thinking about my personal history and being adopted feels so deeply and irrevocably personal that I cannot even put it into words. Sometimes I am not even thinking in words, just in fragmented flashes and in feelings I had when reading certain essays (but not the content of the essays) and in images of myself as an infant and in question marks that have not yet been inked.
The confounded language of the above paragraph should be evidence enough of the difficulty.
I want to tell you about things that happened to me over the holidays, things that have been happening to me during my most recent trips home. But the polarizing tension between moments of discovery, unshakable guilt, and an intractably difficult extended family is so straining that I find it best not to put it into words at all.
I wish I could just tear off a part of my flesh and lay it before you like a trophy, evidence that I have been changing and that I don’t know how I feel about it. Evidence of my weariness and my excitement. Never before have I been able to trace particular emotions and parts of my life to my racial identity (or lack thereof) and my adoption like this. And while I want to keep reading and exploring, a large part of me wishes I could go back to not even knowing how little I understand.