Onward and Upward: Remember That Things Can Get Better

By Nicole Kyung Buntgen

Have you ever felt adrift?

Author Nicole Buntgen, an international closed adoptee who grew up in a rural, predominantly white town, has plenty to say. Everyone has faced labels in their life. For Buntgen, some of hers include the whitest Asian, well-spoken, dramatic, mature, lazy, and professional. Although she has struggled wi

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Oct 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885048248

Book preview

Introduction

Since second grade, I’ve always had a knack for writing—anything that sparked creativity ignited a passion inside of me. That passion kickstarted the creation of this book. After my twenty-third birthday, I vowed I would become a published author by the age of twenty-four.

Six months later, I realized that was never going to happen.

So I made it happen in twelve.

People always ask why I decided to write a book, why I chose my topics, and why I wanted to write about myself. They’re all great questions, and I always answer with the same response:

Why not?

A change of environment brought me closer to like-minded people and inspired me to say, Hey, I should write a book.

Growth can be an evolving journey, as it has been in my life. Between being adopted, facing ignorance, and processing my various mental health labels, I have wandered through life and always asked myself, What’s next?

I’m here to tell you my story from my perspective and reflect on important aspects of my life. I’m taking you on a journey, and it’s my goal to help you feel empowered. I hope you find this book to be an outlet for yourself.

Onward and Upward.

PART 1

Adoption

1

Closed Out of Her Life

"So, what’s an Asian girl doing in Nebraska?"

This was what one of the guys running our private parasail flight said to me. I was fourteen years old at the time, with my nineteen-year-old sister, Rebecca. We were in Honolulu, Hawaii, on what I’d say was our most memorable vacation ever with the captivating ocean surrounding us. Rebecca and I were getting hooked up to the ride when one of the workers began making conversation.

The where are you from? question always trips me up. It’s a vague inquiry that I never know how to properly answer: do I say I’m from David City—my hometown and the place where I grew up? Do I say South Korea—the place where I was born? Do I overgeneralize and say Asia—seeing as some people I’ve run into unfortunately don’t know the most simplistic answer to such a complex question?

I don’t think people understand how difficult it is to answer a question like that because they don’t think twice about all the different answers that run through my mind.

After my sister stated we were from Nebraska, the question of my race immediately came into play. I wasn’t offended or surprised by this—I actually thought it was funny. It’s not uncommon for people to question what relation I have to my family, given we are two different races: my family is white, and I am Asian. I suppose when people visualize a family, they imagine all members looking alike. Families come in all shapes and sizes and shouldn’t be defined by blood relations; however, I understand this isn’t the first thought most people have when the topic is being discussed. As I’ve grown older, the skepticism surrounding the association I have with my family has dwindled—people are now surprised to discover my family is not Asian like me. Looking back on the situation now helps me realize these comments are more about a lack of diversity than about me as a person.

I grew up in David City, NE: a town with the word city in its name but hosting a population of fewer than three thousand people. When I lived there, the demographics consisted of about five total Asians—myself included. All of us were adopted, so the concept of us being brought up by white families wasn’t anything out-of-the-ordinary. Although I’ve never looked at my family as white, I began to realize other people saw this difference once I grew up and moved away. After I graduated from high school and moved to a bigger city for college, I found myself forgetting that people didn’t realize I was adopted. Whenever I made new friends, they would ask to see pictures of my family, and they were surprised to learn my family is white. At no time up to that point had this racial differentiation occurred to me, and it’s something I never thought I would have to explain to people.

I attended college in Lincoln and later moved to Omaha: the two largest cities in Nebraska. Within these metros, I have met many Asian-Americans who are not adopted and were raised by Asian families. Some of them stay true to their heritage and carry cultural customs through their lives: they speak their native languages or bask in authentic Asian cuisine. Meeting these types of Asians has always fascinated me because it allows me to gain perspective on what it’s like to grow up in an Asian household. I didn’t grow up eating bulgogi, kimchi, and rice; I ate hot dogs, chicken strips, and hamburgers. I didn’t grow up practicing Buddhism or worshiping my ancestors; I attended the Methodist church in David City and went to Sunday School. I have always been branded as the whitest Asian people know, and I’ve never truly felt like I belong in either the Asian or white community. I am an Asian who was raised in a white household. For me, that’s all I know—how was I supposed to know any better?

You don’t like fish? You don’t know how to use chopsticks? You’re Asian, for God’s sake!

As if I didn’t already feel like an outcast, comments like these still bother me to this day, and it’s difficult to pretend they don’t. Just because I am Asian doesn’t mean I automatically fall under typical Asian stereotypes. I am no less of an Asian than the one standing next to me. Although my upbringing, practices, and norms do not align with kids raised by Asian parents, that doesn’t mean we all fall under the same category and must enjoy, act, and live life the same way.

I used to be very insecure about my race and grew irritated by the constant stares and double-takes I would receive when out with my family in public. Sometimes people would even go as far as questioning if I’m really related to my family. One time in middle school, a classmate inquired about my real parents versus my white ones. I didn’t even know how to respond.

Another time in middle school, I was called yellow skin by an older student. That day, I went home and jumped on our desktop computer and searched for skin-lightening creams to hide the so-called yellow tones my Asian skin gave off. When I used to take studio dance classes, I had a girl inform me my eyes looked weird. I went home in tears that day and hopped back on our computer to research how much surgery would cost so my eyes could look less Asian. Although there were a few other Asians in town I could confide in, none of us were particularly close. While most people didn’t see me as Nicole the Asian, I did. I grew ashamed of my race and frequently scoured the internet for different ways I could hide my Asian identity. I couldn’t stand being seen as an outcast—all I wanted was to fit in.

I don’t think people realize how deeply my adoption resonates with me. While I do feel adoption is a term people know, I don’t think they know all of what it entails. From my experiences, people view adoption as another way to create a family, but in a more time-consuming, expensive, and less-efficient manner. This is true to an extent, as the adoption process does take a great deal of time. It took my parents over a year to bring me home, which is crazy to imagine because while they were applying for adoption, I hadn’t even been born.

People have asked me who I love more: my birth family or my adoptive family. To this day, I can’t believe people had the nerve to ask me such a question. It’s similar to asking a child of divorce whether they love their birth family or stepfamily more. The love between both families is incomparable, regardless of blood relations. "But your birth mom put you up for adoption. Doesn’t that make you hate her?" people would ask me. There is so much more to adoption than people are aware of, and the feelings I carry with me accompany the beauty and depression behind it.

The identity challenges I’ve faced have negatively affected my self-esteem, which has taken an emotional toll on my life, and the limited information I have about my birth mom has left a void of unanswered questions in my life. While these are only some of the many complexities that come with being an adopted child, the adoption I am referring to is a closed adoption. Many people assume adoptees keep in contact with their birth families. Unfortunately, this is not my reality.

I am a closed adoptee. I have no contact with my birth mom, and there are no guarantees I will ever communicate with her. But I try to stay hopeful.

* * *

Statistics show that less than five percent of modern adoptions are closed (Davis 2022). This is because most women considering adoption only go through with it if they know they will have at least some form of contact with the adoptive family and their child—usually done through pictures and letters. Although closed adoptions are rare in the United States, they remain common in international adoptions, such as mine.

Everyday things you may not think about—such as the name of your mom, your dad’s birthday, or even your sister’s age—may sound like weird things to question. Unlike closed adoptions, open adoptions allow the birth and adoptive families to share information with each other and maintain contact.

Imagine not knowing what your birth mom’s name is. Imagine not knowing if you have any genetic medical conditions. Imagine not knowing what your birth mom looks like. Imagine not knowing the largest piece of your identity.

I don’t know who my birth mom is, but I find myself. constantly painting a picture of her in my head.

She was young and, I’m sure, more beautiful than ever. I imagine she had coarse hair paired with a chubby face to match mine. I wonder if she had an imperfect nose like me, one that was almost perfect but offered a slight dent down the middle. I wonder if we had the same personality and if she was outgoing and humorous like me. I wonder if her heart was as full as mine and if she gave the world to those she loved.

I know she had a full heart; otherwise, she wouldn’t have put me up for adoption.

But I still think about what could have been. I think about what my life would be like if I grew up in a Korean household. I think about my job, appearance, and things I would eat compared to how I live now. I think about how I would speak, interact with others, and take on the world.

In South Korea, nontraditional families are frowned upon by society: single moms are shunned—and sometimes cut off—by family members and are discriminated against at work. Expectant moms are often forced to hide their pregnancies before being pressured to give up their children for adoption.

I know very little about my birth mom, but the few things I do know, I hold close to my heart.

I was adopted through Holt International, the first international adoption program established in South Korea. My family received a small amount of confidential background information from Holt, and one document encloses three tiny details that