Abandonment
pounds through the pulse of Korea. Separated families, orphans,
missing spouses, abductions, common during wartime. But after war,
during the economic boom, the pattern of abandonment continues.
“Goose daddies” whose wives and children fly away to the USA for
education, women coerced or betrayed into giving up their children
for adoption, overworked parents who rarely see their children, and
the myriad of addictions that devastate relationships.
My own
pre-verbal pattern of abandonment is triggered here. I didn’t think
anything special of the fact that my parents left me for 6 months
when I was an infant. I thought it was normal. My father, always
devoted completely to his profession as a scientist, took my mom and
oldest brother, age 4, to Rochester, NY, in 1964, leaving me and my
brother, age 2, with my grandmother. This is so common in Korea it’s
hardly worth mentioning.
Not until
I had children of my own did I re-think this event. Not until I
mothered, breastfed, and bonded with my own babies did I realize how
wrenching an extended separation could be. I had a hard enough time
leaving my infant for 2 hours to go to an appointment, much less 6
months. What did my mother feel as she left her infant and toddler
behind to accompany her husband? What kind of withdrawal must my
brother and I have gone through as our bonds with our primary
caregiver, our father, and our brother, were severed? Luckily we knew
our grandmother well. Nevertheless the role of the primary provider,
our mother, is unique, and elicits specific hormonal and neurological
responses.
I know
that infancy abandonment has affected me in many ways, even if I
cannot always recognize or articulate them. In my body, I am
experiencing Korea heavily in my heart. Daily I break myself open to
both joy and sorrow, to both laughter and tears.
At the
same time, my elderly friend and mentor in Detroit is ailing. I said
my goodbye before I departed for Korea, and it breaks my heart that I
cannot be physically present. I have served as a would-be midwife to
the dying, for my parents, and for close friends, as a benevolent
angel of death, I darkly joke. I am so sad I cannot be there for my
friend, and devastated to be so far away, in a city where I do not
have a community to celebrate and grieve our friend’s life and
ongoing transition into death.
All of
this has my body in a state of inflamed red alert. Old asthma
patterns have been triggered. Respiratory inflammation roams from
sinuses to nose to throat to chest. I strive to be patient with
myself, nurture myself, and to lean into the connections that remind
me that I am not alone, I am not abandoned, I am resilient, and am
always surrounded by love.
My friend
Jung-In points out that Koreans do not identify as a colonized or
occupied people. She would not be able to live with such an identity.
Instead, she experiences Korea at its best as a nation of resistance
and survival. She looks to the fierce farmer activists over
generations, fighting for the right to grow food, protect the land,
and support their families. She works with teachers dedicated to
meeting the needs of stressed and burnt-out urban youth. She allies
herself with the protestors and hunger strikers at Ganghwa-mun
demanding that the government take responsibility and make amends for
the Sewol ferry disaster.
I
would also like to identify with the b-boys and b-girls of Korea! I
had my first exhilarating encounter at a festival last night, with
the fantastic Jindo Crew, whose performance took my breath away, and
literally left my poor sensitive lungs wheezing. My breathing is back
to normal today, and I am bravely opening my heart and lungs further
and further, embracing all that green and pink of the heart chakra.
Beyond
decolonizing, I am re-indigenizing myself, taking in Korea’s
rhythms and flavors, feeling the land beneath my feet, taking a
nightly moonbath on our rooftop, feeling the stars watching me even
if the bright city lights obscure them.
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