All You Can Ever Know

by Nicole Chung

  Abby discovered my workbook on the dining room table the following morning, and wasted no time in commandeering it. As I made myself breakfast in the kitchen, I heard her firing questions at Dan, who had no way of answering. “What does this say? What is this word here? How do I write my name in Korean?”

  She worked diligently at her little desk in the living room while I ate my eggs and toast. By the time I finished my coffee, she was ready to show me her results. “Mama,” she said, thrusting a piece of yellow construction paper into my hands, “look what I just did!”

  She had written all of the Korean consonants, followed by all the vowels, and labeled them with their corresponding sounds. There were a few cross-outs, a few tiny errors, but I had no trouble discerning each character. Though I wasn’t at all surprised by her enthusiasm, her effort impressed me. I asked if she wanted to help me practice my letters, too. Working side by side, Angie’s workbook lying open on the table between us, we picked out words to write. Family. Gajok. Tree. Namu. Story. Iyagi. Abby drew a small picture of a butterfly next to the word nabi.

  Not long after we met, Cindy had informed me with unmistakable fondness that everything about me “screams ‘American.’” I knew I could spend the rest of my life seeking, and still regain only a fraction of what I had lost. But as I looked over my child’s first attempt at writing in Korean, I felt sure that I had made the right decision to search. Introducing her first to her aunt, then to her biological grandfather, and now to this first symbol of our shared heritage—these were all aspects of healing, though I hadn’t realized I still needed to be healed. My identity as an adoptee is complicated, fluid, but then so is everyone else’s.

  Again I thought back to Abby’s question—Am I a real Korean?—an unintentional echo of a question I’d asked myself so many times. From the moment I learned that I was carrying her, I had been startled by all the things parenthood had pushed me into doing, all the questions and doubts it had raised. Just by existing, both my daughters continually made me reflect on who I was and who I wanted to be; the messy family history and shifting Korean and American identities I so badly wanted to understand and help them understand.

  The adoption story I’d heard so often growing up was supposed to remake me, give me everything I needed, make me feel whole. In the end, though, real growth and healing came from another kind of radical change—from finding the courage to question what I’d always been told; to seek and discover and tell another kind of story. And I know my children will benefit from all the things I will pass on to them now, all the truths I’m able to share.

  “What should we write now, Mama?” Abby asked, tapping the workbook with the tip of her pencil. “The alphabet, again?”

  I turned back to the first page of our shared book. My eyes scanned the newly familiar characters in their boxes, the rows of letters waiting to be transformed into syllables and sentences and perhaps even new stories for both of us. I nodded at my daughter, meeting her curious look with a smile. “Yes,” I said. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This story owes its life to my kind and brilliant editor, Julie Buntin, who sent me an email way back in November 2015 to ask if I was working on anything (I was!). Julie fought for this book from day one, banked up my faith at every turn, improved my manuscript at every stage, and didn’t even freak out when I told her I was reorganizing the entire first half based on a dream I’d had. How incredible is Julie? She edited huge chunks of this while on her own book tour. I will always be grateful to her.

  Working on your first book can make you feel like a little kid sneaking into the big kids’ amusement park ride. This journey would have been so much more daunting without the steady reassurance, support, and faith of my agent, Maria Massie. Thanks also to Shannon O’Neill, one of the very first people to listen and help me define this story; and to Amanda Annis, erstwhile editor turned agent, advocate, and editorial matchmaker.

  Thank you to everyone at Catapult who supported this book beyond my wildest hopes, politely refusing to comment on the fact that for like a year I was too anxious to look any of them in the eye when it came up. No book or author could have better champions than Julie, Andy Hunter, Jennifer Abel Kovitz, Megan Fishmann, Lena Moses-Schmitt, Erin Kottke, Katie Boland, Sarah Baline, and Dustin Kurtz. Every time I thought I was about to lose my grip, a reassuring email from Jonathan Lee or Pat Strachan would pop up in the nick of time. Donna Cheng and Nicole Caputo came up with a beautiful design for the hardcover edition that made the book 25 percent better, just like that. Thank you to the patient and skilled Jordan Koluch, Wah-Ming Chang, and Elizabeth Ireland; to Colin Drohan and Stella Cabot Wilson, who supported Julie while she worked on this book and fielded all my frantic texts; and to my web editorial colleagues past and present, including Yuka Igarashi, Megha Majumdar, Mensah Demary, Allie Wuest, Mallory Soto, Morgan Jerkins, and Natalie Degraffinried. Special thanks to Yuka, one of the greatest and most gracious mentors I’ve ever had, for making me part of a wonderful editorial team, advocating for this book, and providing so much crucial input and encouragement during the writing.

  My love and gratitude, always, to Nicole Cliffe and Daniel Mallory Ortberg, who know every reason why.

  A thousand thanks to friends and early manuscript readers Kat Chow, Angela Chen, Noah Cho, Spencer Lee Lenfield, Matthew Salesses, JaeRan Kim, and Rita Maldonado.

  No one should go through their debut alone—I am so grateful for the friendship and surpassingly beautiful books of R. O. Kwon, Ingrid Rojas Contreras, Vanessa Hua, Lydia Kiesling, Crystal Hana Kim, Lillian Li, and Lucy Tan.

  Thank you to the friends, writers, and teachers to whom I owe so much, including Taylor Harris, Tope Charlton, Alyssa Keiko Furukawa, Karissa Chen, Celeste Ng, Laura Ortberg Turner, Elon Green, Esmé Weijun Wang, Greg Pak, Alexander Chee, Jaya Saxena, Jess Zimmerman, Min Jin Lee, Rainbow Rowell, Jessica Valenti, Jasmine Guillory, Kendra James, Arissa Oh, Chanda Prescod-Weinstein, Rahawa Haile, Rose Eveleth, Sarah Werner, Kirstin Butler, Kathleen Fitzpatrick, Emily Brooks, Margaret H. Willison, Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan, Beth Kephart, Tim Wendel, Ralph Burrelle, and Susan Champion.

  Cheers to The Toast and Toasties everywhere, to Hyphen magazine, to Kundiman, and to every editor who’s given me a chance.

  Whenever I was afraid working on this book (and there were many, many times when that was the case), thinking of my fellow adoptees is what kept me going. Thank you to every adopted person reading this. And to every adoptee I’ve ever read, learned from, or published—I can’t imagine where or who I would be without your voices.

  Finally, this memoir would not exist without the love and patience of my many families. Thank you, Dan, for making our life not just possible, but wonderful, and for working harder than anyone else to support my dreams. Thank you, Cindy, for being the family I didn’t know or dare to hope for, and for saying yes when I asked if I could write about it all. Thank you to my mom for raising me with love, and for reading this book and seeing only more love and truth; and to my birth father and his wife and Rick and Jessica for every story shared and every door so generously opened to me. Thanks to Marie, John, Meghan, Tom, and Abra for all the support and sustenance over the years. Dad, I miss you every day, but I know you’re still proud of me—I’m glad your joke stayed in, too.

  And to the nineteenth generation—the best generation, as far as I’m concerned—this story is yours, too. I hope you like it. You are loved.

 

 

 
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