International Adoption

It was in the lobby of a hotel in Seoul, Korea, where I first saw her and she was flirting openly with my husband, Jim. There was no subtlety or holding back. Some ancient female intuition seemed to be nudging her to look deeply into his eyes, to reach for his hand, to move her body closer to his.

She was barely four feet tall and her long black hair was twisted into a French braid. Her eyes were brown and luminous and they twinkled with a touch of mischief. She was a wisp of a girl, so regal and elegant that she might have been a porcelain doll. She was dressed in the traditional Korean costume, bright colors of silk and organza, a mix of red, blue and green.

"You," she said laughing at my husband, "big, fat, American."

Jim looked down at his belly for just a moment, a touch of concern on his face and then broke out in a big grin.

"Did you hear that, Laura?" he asked me.

A nun stepped from behind, composed but determined, and took the child's arm.

"This is Songje," the nun said. "She was left on the doorstep of our Catholic orphanage 11 years ago when she was only three days old. She is a stubborn child and has never agreed to be adopted by anyone who wanted her and now she is so old we are afraid there will be no further offers. Can you buy her?""

Jim blanched while Songje looked up at him out of the corner of her eyes. She slipped away from the nun and ran to put her arms around him, her head barely reaching his chest.

Every morning she was there in the lobby, in the elevator and in the restaurant. Each day she would be in another beautiful costume, often her hair would hang loose or be wound in a tight chignon, much as the older Korean women wear. Wherever we went in the hotel, Songje's eyes were watching.

"She is a dancer," the nun said to me one day. "She danced before she could walk. She is so talented and exquisite that we use her to impress all the foreigners and she loves to dance for everyone."

The nun sighed, wanting desperately to say more in the hope we might agree to take her. Songje floated by, her feet barely touching the floor as if she were dancing to the nun's cue. She was all in white that particular day, like the littlest angel with long black hair and hopeful eyes.

"She always does her duties at the orphanage," the nun went on. "Her job is to kill chickens. She can kill five in a day."

Songje clapped her hands and laughed. "Sometimes six."

We had returned from dinner late that evening and I stopped in the ladies room for a minute. There was Songje sitting on the floor, wearing the old rags that she must have worn from home. "Don't see me," she begged, "I lose face," and she dashed from the room.

On our last day, she was not there. We looked everywhere, but as we walked out of our hotel, we saw her sitting on the steps. She was in her old clothes. Her face was stained from her tears and her eyes were swollen. She rose and handed us a large piece of cardboard on which she had drawn a picture. The picture was of an American house, surrounded by pretty flowers and three stick figures - one lady, one man and a little Korean child between them.

On the bottom of the cardboard, she had painstakingly written, "Goodbye, American father!"

My husband did not hesitate. He scooped her up in his arms and held her for the longest time, circling around and around as they looked in each other's eyes. Then he put her down ever so gently until her little feet touched the ground and we moved on down the steps.

Tears fogged our vision as we looked behind to watch her running and running after our cab as we pulled away.

Two hours later, the plane lifted precariously from the city, heavy with passengers and luggage. I watched through the window as the great, tall buildings turned slowly into miniatures and puffs of white clouds drifted by. The reflection of Songje consumed me, her fight for survival, her tear stained face. My mind, still flooded with indecision, came suddenly into focus. I felt there was only one choice and I must adopt her.

Jim was watching me intently.

"You really want this child, Laura," he said, more as a statement than a question.

"Oh, yes," I said, my eyes appealing to him. "I really do."

"Then," he said, hesitating only a second, "we'll find a way."

"Even as we arrived home in Los Angeles we were deep into our plans.

"Let's write to her orphanage and to the Holt Agency who processes this type of adoption."

"Those two," he said, scribbling into his notebook, "and the Department of Social Services and" - his voice trailed off.

We talked all the way home in the cab and late into the night. Then, exhausted, we fell into bed to sleep.

Long before we had opened our mail or waved at the neighbors, we were busy looking up addresses.

We wrote to her orphanage first. They acknowledged our request and sent paperwork for us to fill out. When we heard from them again, they explained that Songje would have to go to the Holt Agency for a medical work-up and immunization. Naturally, there would be more papers to fill out. We followed their instructions. It took at least six months. During that year we received a small picture of Songje which we lovingly framed and put out for everyone to see. Then we waited another year.

When the Department of Social Services called us we were so excited. We went to the downtown office and filled out more papers. In several months they visited us in our home. It began to look hopeful, even though another year had gone by. By now it was two and half years since our Korea trip.

Then we heard nothing. Our frustration was enormous, not being able to understand why the system moved so slowly. Songje was not quite 11 when we found her and now she was over 13. We were missing such important years. Finally, a letter arrived from the US Department of Immigration. It said simply that she would be too old by the time she arrived.

"Not true," Jim said and wrote promptly to our Congressman. Within a few months we had a special Congressional order to permit her into the United States. It was still six months more before we received the telegram.

"Songje Kim will be arriving Thursday at 9:15 a.m."

That took my breath away. She was coming. It was three and a half years later, but she was coming. Then I realized that was only a day away. Jim was not even in town. He would miss her homecoming, but would be back later in the afternoon.

When the day arrived my mind burst with questions. "How was she feeling about coming so many years later? Would she be sad? Would she miss the orphanage? Would she even know me?"

At the airport, there was a designated area for new parents to wait. One wall was of glass, allowing us to watch our children as they came from the plane. As the incoming flight from Korea was announced, shouts and cheers filled the room. The crowd merged toward the window as baby after baby came by, name tags pinned on their blankets. They had almost disappeared when a little waif rounded the corner, ambling in the direction of the window.

I jumped up and down, knocking on the window and shouting her name.

"Songje, Songje, it's me, Laura."

She could not hear me but she paused long enough for me to see her. She had not grown much, still a tiny, little thing. Her black hair was braided down to her waist, her coat tattered, her once white stockings sagging and gray. She pressed her face against the window and made a face. Just then a flight attendant came and grabbed her hand, hurrying her along in the direction of the babies.

Then she stood in the doorway of the room where I was waiting, her face flushed, her eyes fearful. I stared at her and when she saw me, she stared back questioningly. I held out my arms and ran to her. She watched me as I approached, paused a second, and then sprinted off in the opposite direction. I chased her through the airport, up the escalator, down the escalator, running into passengers, almost losing my purse. I could hardly breathe, but even with her little legs, she gave me a good run for it.

Suddenly I remembered the picture. It was of the three of us in front of the hotel in Seoul. I was wearing the same red coat I wore in the photograph. Maybe she would recognize it.

"Big, fat American," I yelled waving the picture at her. She paused, then turned and looked at me. She couldn't see the picture, but she heard the words. One little step at a time, she moved in my direction. On the last step, she grabbed the picture. She stared at it for a long time. Finally, she looked up at me and held out her hand. Together, we walked through the airport and out to the parking lot.

The Los Angeles Airport at any time is a loud, chaotic and muggy arena of exhausted travelers and honking cars. The smog burns your eyes and chokes out the air in your lungs. This day was no exception. We found the car and I put her in the passenger side before I got behind the wheel. I turned the air on full blast. She looked startled.

"No," she cried, trying to get out the front door. "You, no drive."

"I, no drive?" I grabbed her to keep her from jumping out.

"You, lady," she said, "lady, no drive."

This is America, Songje," I patted her on the knee, "almost every lady drives in America."

Sliding down in her seat, she covered her face with her hands. She did not look up until I parked the car at the mall where we would buy her some basic clothing.

Inside the shopping center, surrounded by mirrors, I became acutely aware of our image, a tall, blonde lady with a little Oriental doll. We smiled at ourselves in the mirror and observed each other carefully.

Then I came face to face with reality. She was here. Songje was staring in the mirror at me after all these years. What on earth was I supposed to do with her?

While I worried, she was intent on grabbing hold of a little mannequin wearing a white, flannel nightgown. She had carried it over to a corner and was talking to it in Korean.

A smiling saleslady reached for it, but Songje would have none of that.

"Mine," Songje said fiercely, heading for the escalator.

"No, not yours," the lady said, sounding concerned.

I grabbed another gown like it and showed her.

"Yours," I said, and she let go. I purchased a few essentials, then headed home.

When the neighbors saw us pull into the driveway, they gathered quickly.

"This is my daughter," I said proudly, and they all crowded around her. She was staring at the house intensely.

"Small house," she said, sounding a little wistful. "Small."

"Come with me," Lelia, our next door neighbor said, "I'll play the Korean National Anthem for you."

As Lelia sat at the bench in front of her grand piano, Songje's eyes widened at the first few bars of "Arirang". Timidly at first, she began to hum. Then, her voice became stronger and at last it rose above the piano itself. It was as if all of her feelings were captured by the music, becoming stronger and stronger, until the last note was played.

We applauded, we cheered, we did a standing ovation. Immediately, Songje became a star. She bowed and pirouetted and clapped her hands. Then she spoke.

"Where big house?" she asked.

I walked her back to our house.

"Where swimming pool?"

"Swimming pool?" I was astonished. "Swimming pool?" She nodded.

"That's your swimming pool, Songje," I said, pointing to the ocean. "I think that's plenty big."

I stared at her and she stared at the floor.

"Right now, Songje, you need a bath." I started her off towards the bathroom.

As the water was running in the tub, I put out her white flannel nightgown and some white fluffy slippers I had bought. I waited to see what she wanted me to do. She put her hands on my back and shoved me out the door. Then she locked it.

A half hour went by as I started dinner. I went back to the bathroom and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I set the table and made a phone call and stood outside the door. I knocked again. No answer. I found a key and unlocked it.

She was in the tub, all right, the water up to her neck. She was still in all of her clothes with her shoes on. I thought she was asleep, but when she saw me, she arose from the water, dripping all over, and pointed to the door. I brought her a pail for her wet things and then I left the room.

Dinner was just ready when Jim burst through the front door.

"Songje," he yelled. "Where is my Songje?"

I gave him one of those eyes to the ceiling looks when Songje herself stepped gracefully from the bathroom. She flung her arms wide and ran into his.

Her hair was still wet but it was perfectly groomed and her face was scrubbed clean. She was once again the littlest angel, floating around the room as if her feet never touched the floor.

"She's so lovely," he said, "so very, very lovely," and I smiled.

"How do you like it here," he asked, "Do you like your new home?"

"Nice house," she said, watching me as I glared at her.

After dinner she slipped away. I found her in her bedroom, all of the blankets off the bed and on the floor. She had brought some oranges in from the kitchen table.

"Christmas," she said and put them carefully on her bed.

"Bedtime," I said, and sat on the floor beside her.

Then I handed her the Korean Bible she had carried in her brown paper sack, the only possession she had brought. I opened up my Bible and she began to hum the melody to "Flow Gently Sweet Afton."

I sang with her in English and she sang in Korean until her eyes began to close. As she put her head on the pillow, I heard her whisper - "Omonee." I listened carefully, and there it was again.

"Omonee."

It was the Korean word for mother.

© Roots & Wings Adoption Magazine

Credits: Jean B. Jost, Ph.D.