Seoul , Korea , 1972, I was left on a street corner in a basket - more than likely by my birth mother.
I was turned over to the authorities when someone found me in the basket. They brought me to an
orphanage, where I stayed until I was adopted and brought to the Unites States, at the age of one.

During the process of my adoption, this picture was taken. The name that was on it says
Kim Yuh Seng. I was told that this was my Korean name. It was allegedly written on a piece of
paper and placed in the basket with me. The adoption picture was taken, the name placed in my
lap, along with the number 10,985. I call this my purchase order number, as I'm sure it had
something to do with the adoption process, somehow. . . .

This was the first picture sent to my adoptive parents in the United States before I came over,
the first time they saw what I looked like.

Anyway, over the course of my life, all I had as a tie to Korea was this picture, with what I thought
was my Korean name. This was the only thread of a possible identity or connection to the land
from which I came.

In 2002, I had the idea to have my Korean name written out in Korean characters and tattooed on
my back (down my spine). I was working in New York City at the time, and I frequented a small
deli for lunch the majority of the week(s). The deli was owned by a Korean family as various family
members worked different shifts. They always looked at me, differently than other customers,
but they never said anything to me at first. Several months passed, and the woman who worked
the lunch shift finally asked me where I was from.

In the past this was a question that always annoyed me, to an extent. It bothered me because,
for me, it was always a "loaded question", one I didn't want to satisfy. My usual response was
"I'm from Wisconsin", knowing that it wasn't the answer the inquiring person wanted to hear.
It was my standard smart-ass reply, however.

On this particular day, I figured I would tell them what they wanted to hear, and see what would
happen. I knew they were Korean by they way they would stare me down every time I entered
the deli. Or at least I was certain of the curiosity. So, the question came. "Are you Korean?
Where you from?" the woman asked with a thick Oriental accent.

I said, "Yes, I am Korean", which got the reply "Do you speak Korean?" Of course I said no,
because I didn't, which is a whole different story for another time. But, in getting the response
that I'm sure she had expected (as she viewed my assimilated look for several months) she said, "Shame on you!" As if she already had played out the scenario in her mind.

This is when I responded (as calmly as I possibly could) "I'm sorry, but you don't know me well
enough to shame me. You don't my life and how or where I grew up. I was adopted by a family in
America, and raised in the Midwest, because YOUR people didn't want me. So, you should shame
yourself first for making the comment, and further, shame your people for not wanting me."

So, with that she was taken aback, and after a moment, right before I walked out (thinking I would
never go back again) she said in her broken English, "I teach you Korean. You come back later."

So, I did. I got my usual coffee and fruity Japanese candy, and she would tell me how to say the
items I was purchasing in Korean. It was cute, and I actually looked forward to going in there after
a while.

As the days and weeks passed, I figured she would be able to help me write out my Korean name in
the native characters the way I wanted them to be tattooed. After several opportunities passed with
my nerves in my stomach, I finally got the courage to ask her this favor. She happily obliged, so I
wrote it out in English, and with the translating help of another woman who worked there, she reacted
with a puzzled look on her face. They exchanged words in Korean as I listened and wondered what
they were saying. I knew they were talking about me because they held perplexed looks on their
faces as they stared at me and spoke. They finally figured out how to tell me that they concluded it
couldn't be my Korean name because it was a male name. As they told me, I stood frozen in that
moment. My heart sank into my stomach for what seemed like hours. My mind raced in a million
directions in that instant as I tried to process this new truth.

The first thing I did was call my friend Hilary who worked in Midtown. I knew that her dry cleaners
were Korean, and she always spoke about how they liked her and were really nice to her. I asked if
she could take the spelling of what I thought was my Korean name to them, and ask if it was a male
or female name. She confirmed a few minutes later that it indeed was a male name.

I was still standing in that dirty little Korean deli, with the woman trying to make excuses to give me
reasons why the name might have been put in my basket with me. She asked if I was sure that I
spelled it correctly. For just a moment, I thought "yeah that must be the problem" so I told her I would
bring the picture in the next day.

Of course, the moment I got home I rifled through my pictures to find it. It was then that I made an
unusual discovery. Focusing on the letters of my name, I also glanced at the "purchase order
number." The picture was black and white, so the letters and numbers were written in black, of
course. I suddenly noticed that the last digit of my P.O. number had been changed from a 5 to a 9
with a ball point pen---something that hadn't been noticed in thirty-some years, by anyone.

In that moment, I felt like the only connection I had to Korea was gone, like something I had taken
for granted all my life was taken away. It was no more. I felt like I had no identity. No purpose. No
reason to claim to be Korean. I sat feeling completely empty. Then I called my Mom when I pulled
myself together. She, of course, was as shocked as I was and recommended that I contact the
adoption agency, which I did the very next day.

Upon my initial inquiry, I was told that they had to pull my file and would get back to me the next
day via email.

This request was not what I had expected, as they told me the same story that I had thought was
the truth the entire time. I had to contact them again (by phone) and ask them about the number,
the number that was changed, and compare it to what they had on file. I told them about the
Korean name being a male name. They had no explanation. No answer, no reason, no resolution.
And worse---no suggestions to figure it out.

Over the next few weeks, maybe even months, I struggled with losing the only connection to Korea
that I thought I had. I still went to see the women at the deli, and they still kept trying to teach me
little words here and there. They would always giggle and think it was funny, I guess because they
were teaching elementary words to a grown adult. But nonetheless, I felt they were genuine,
especially after the whole name episode.

They frequently asked if I got the situation resolved, and even offered to contact people that they
knew who lived in Korea, but I knew it would be a futile attempt, since it apparently wasn't my name.
Additionally, having the last name Kim was like having the name Anderson or Johnson here. It would
be like searching for a needle in a haystack. I therefore graciously thanked them, told them that I
would think about it, and I would let them know.

As for my tattoo idea, I decided I would ask them to write out the number in Korean with the last
digit crossed out and changed. It didn't really matter if it made sense to anyone else but me,
then or now. But, that is why I am writing this all out now. For myself, and for when someone asks
what it means, I can direct them here, instead of telling the whole story, AGAIN!

Of course, before getting the tattoo, I had to verify with other sources to make sure the phrase
didn't say "sell-out" or "I'm an idiot" or something like that. I've heard nightmare stories such as
that, so I just made sure that my little Korean ladies really did like me.

I got the tattoo (much to my Mother's dismay) and will cherish it even when I'm 100 years old,
wrinkled and shriveled up. You might only be able to read 199 by then (as some of the digits may
disappear into my wrinkles). But again, who cares? It's all I know for sure. For me.



copyright 2006. kobie l. conrath. all rights reserved.