Author: Lucy Garberg
Instagram: @lucygarberg
Editor’s note: few parts of this piece have been excerpted due to understanding and clarity issues.
Dear Birth Mother,
I’ve never really thought about writing a letter to you before now. I guess it’s because it’s daunting writing to someone who, despite not knowing them, means a lot to you. You’re my birth mother, after all. But I think that now is as good a time as any to write to you. I’m writing this letter to sort things out with you and tell you about my life, the one I’ve lived nearly six thousand miles away from you.
It’s been eighteen years since I last saw you. I was just one week old. According to the orphanage records, you bundled me up in a pale green sweater and placed me at the gate of Bijiashanxiang’s government building and left. You didn’t leave a trace of yourself––not even a note for me to remember you by, and since then, I haven’t seen you––not even in my dreams.
I wonder how you remember that moment, that time when you walked away and didn’t look back. That moment when tears streaked your face. That moment when you returned home to a house that was emptier than you had left it. That moment that you still probably think about to this day.
I too think about that moment, but it’s all imagined because I don’t remember. I don’t even remember your face, and I blame that on childhood amnesia––something we all have. Our youthful memories evaporate into thin air. It’s because the parts of the brain responsible for memory are not fully developed at such a young age. But if I had to guess what your face looks like, I bet it’s quite similar to mine. Perhaps you have my button nose or my almond-shaped eyes. Or maybe you even have the same freckle on your left cheek. Genetics works the same way with everyone, right?
Sometimes, I think of you at odd hours. Just this morning, for instance, as the sunlight crept through my window, I thought of you on the other side of the world. I thought of your day––how it was ending as mine was beginning. When I crawled out of my nest of blankets, I pictured you retreating back into bed. When my room filled with pools of light, I pictured the moon rising outside of your window, driving you back to your dreams. While I ate breakfast, I pictured you eating dinner. I wondered who you ate with. I wondered if you thought of me as well today. Part of me hopes that you did, and part of me hopes you didn’t. I wouldn’t want you to worry about me too much. Us splitting apart was probably meant to be. It was fate.
Do you know there’s a word for that? Yuanfen. It’s the concept of a “fateful coincidence.” Yuanfen is the binding force that brings people together, even those far apart. When I was ten, I stumbled across this word in a bi-weekly Chinese magazine. I was intrigued by a beautiful image, the one next to the article on yuanfen.
I remember it quite well: it was a matte black background behind two white hands that were linked together by a long red thread––the thread of fate. It can stretch or slacken, but regardless, the two people, the two souls connected by the thread would have to unite at some time and place. I believe that yuanfen brought me and my adoptive parents together. It brought me so much love.
It’s as if my parents and I were a match made in heaven. I guess we were linked by that red thread the moment we came into this world. Or maybe the one that brought us together was Madam Wu, the renowned adoption matchmaker. According to myth, she sits down at her mahogany desk, draws out her ancient brush, and matches the Chinese babies with their parents. She knows whether or not they will love one another––whether their souls can dance together. She knows when she sees a perfect match. Mum, Dad, and I were, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I knew Mum and Dad wouldn’t as well because growing up, they loved telling me stories of my adoption. During the months leading up to their flight to China, they received lots of photos in the mail of me. Every time they would see a new picture, they grew giddier with anticipation. Then on September 2nd of 2002, they boarded a plane along with fourteen other adoptive families and flew to China. The next day, jetlagged and incredibly tired, all the parents waited in the lobby of a hotel in Changsha to meet their babies. They said the wait felt like forever––probably because the caregivers took the babies into the room one at a time. I ended up being the last baby brought into the room––the last one to meet their adoptive parents.
Maybe that's why I wore a stoic face when I was placed into their arms. Dad described my expression as the spitting image of Buddha himself. I wonder if you ever saw my serious face––the way my eyebrows think and ask questions on their own. I wonder what expression you remember me having, or if you were too sad to even glance at my face because you knew that I had no place in your future. But I promise you now, I have a life filled with people who love me, who are willing to give me the world. And I want to give you a chance to see it.
I think that if you did meet Mum and Dad, you’d see how much they love life, each other, and me. I think you’d really like Mum. She’s a kind and patient woman who listens to others thoughtfully and takes on life methodically. She’s retired now after many years of work in a lab studying the small beings of the world: E. coli and yeast. Most mornings, I look forward to the time when she practices piano and fills the house with the sound of Bach. In the afternoons, I find her hands deep in the soil, pulling up the imperfections of the lawn. Plants are wise, she tells me. They know more than you’d think. She loves her garden with all the vegetables and shrubbery it provides. At night, she sits on the couch and reads. We’re still growing, she never fails to tell me.
Dad, however, loves books probably more than anything. Unlike Mum, he spends morning, afternoon, and night reading. Sometimes, he’s on the blue couch in the living room, other times he’s on the veranda where he can read to the sound of singing birds. He loves to tell me of all of his recent intellectual findings. I love to hear what he has to say––there’s always something new and exciting.
But what most connects Dad and I together is the fact that we’re both adopted. Our shared experience has made me feel a little less alone in my own home––more understood. However, Dad’s adoption was far different from mine. He looks like his adoptive family. They have blue eyes and light brown hair, and so does he. Dad said that he wasn’t even told that he was adopted until the age of fifteen. Apparently, he shrugged it off and didn’t think much of it.
However, six years ago, I got him really thinking about his adoption. One night, I asked him if he had ever thought about finding his birth parents. This sparked a wave of curiousity within him and he stayed up into the wee hours of the night doing research on them. Granny, who had passed away a couple years prior had left him the files with their names on it. Within a few web searches, the internet brought him answers: his birth mother’s obituary and his birth father’s address.
Dad was sad to hear that brain cancer had claimed his birth mother twenty years prior. To this day, I still wonder what it feels like to lose something that was already lost.
Over the next few weeks, Dad typed up a long letter to his birth father. To this day, I still don’t know what he wrote. He sent it away and waited so long that I had nearly forgotten that Dad ever reached out. However, eight months later his birth father finally replied. And it turned out that Dad was the eldest of five children, and that his four siblings all lived on the east coast. Within a few months, we met all of them, our lives quickly intertwining. They became a part of our family. Maybe one day, birth mother, we’ll step into each other’s lives in the same way.
I want that moment to be like the stories that I’ve been seeing on the news recently––news about Chinese adoptees finding and meeting their birth parents for the first time. Some adoptees have found their birth parents by hanging up signs near the place they were found or by asking the locals for information. But many of them have used DNA testing, one of the wonders of modern technology.
Just a few years ago, I took a DNA test with the vague hope that you had somehow taken one as well. You hadn’t and I wasn’t surprised, just a little bit disappointed. But a few years later, I received an email from someone who was apparently my first cousin. Her name was Emma, and she was fifteen and living in Long Island, New York with her adoptive family. We were surprised to realize that multiple girls from the same family had been adopted and brought to America. Did you know that other family members had given up their children, or did you keep it a secret from one another? I wonder if you know her birth mother and if she knows you. It’s a small world, and there are so many other Chinese adoptees here in America. Apparently, there are a couple hundred thousand. So, you were not alone in giving up a child, and I was not alone in being a Chinese adoptee. In fact, I grew up with many other girls adopted from China, and we became very close over the years.
When I was very small, Mum used to bring me to various adoptee playgroups. Sometimes we went to the park, and other days the beach or one of the family’s houses. While the girls played together and laughed, the adults caught up over a cup of coffee or tea.
I think that all the adoptive parents wanted their girls to feel some sort of connection to China, Mum and Dad in particular. So, every Sunday, Mum and Dad would drive me nearly an hour to the Wincheng Chinese School. There, we’d take language classes and other traditional Chinese activities like painting and calligraphy. During the Chinese holidays––Chun Jie (Chinese New Year or the Spring Festival) and Zhong Qie Jie (Moon Festival or Mid-Autumn Festival) we made the effort to celebrate. On Chinese New Year, Mum and Dad took me to the museum just thirty minutes from our house to watch traditional lion and dragon dances. There, we’d convene with other Chinese adoptee families and school-goers and have a big dinner at the local Chinese restaurant, Horizon.
The restaurant owners, Jim and Jiao Ling adored us. They prepared us special dishes and gifts, like ya jiao zi (duck dumplings) in the shape of ducks. I learned to anticipate what they’d say when I’d walk in, such as “Min Min, you’ve grown so tall!” Then Jiao Ling would give me a big hug and a red envelope. Inside was always a gift certificate to come back at a later date. The two of them loved seeing us Chinese adoptees grow up.
On the Moon Festival each fall, we would set out for Stage Fort Park, a park that lies on the edge of the harbor. On the car ride there, I’d review the folklore that I’d recite each year. I’m sure you know the story––where Chang E, a beautiful woman, drinks a powerful elixir, ascends up into the sky and becomes a goddess.
Usually, I’d tell this story under the glow of the red lanterns that were hung in the trees around the park. The table that I’d sit at would have the same ceremonious red tablecloth that we covered with mooncakes, hot green tea, and cider.
When it grew darker, and the moon rose over the horizon, illuminating the harbor and neighboring lands, we’d all stand up from the table and drift towards the beach. As we walked, we’d sing songs of the moon. Dad’s favorite is one called “I see the moon,” a lullaby that used to draw me into the depths of sleep. It’s no Chinese song, but it has come to be a part of our tradition. Part of me wishes that we sang a traditional Chinese song, but I don’t even know of one, nor would anyone be able to pronounce the words correctly. Maybe one day you’ll teach me a song and we’ll be able to sing it together.
As we trickle onto the beach, our singing would cease, and the only sound that remained was the lapping of the ocean on the rocks and the sand. We’d all stand together and look up at the moon. Sometimes, it’d be too bright, and I’d only glance at it for a second before my eyes would dart down to the grand reflection in the water. When I would look at the moon, I’d think of you––somewhere out there, gazing into the same sky.
Sometimes I imagine what our reunion would be like and I wonder what we would say to each other. I realize that there’s so much I’d like to say to you and I’m sure there’s so much you’d like to say to me. For instance, I’d really like to ask you questions, lots of them. I’d want to know what town I was born in, who my birth father is, and what my actual birthdate is. As of now, my birthdate is only an estimate by a medical examiner. I have so many other questions, but I’m sure that if I had asked them to you a few years ago, it would’ve been quite difficult, maybe even impossible.
I suppose that you probably don’t know much English and I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know much Chinese either. But with this thought, I came to see that I wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of our miscommunication. An interpreter between the two of us would reduce the impact of your words to me, and mine to you. The words wouldn’t come directly from me––which is the way that I want them to. So, I decided to study Chinese again, but in a more serious manner. I decided to learn Chinese for you.
At first, I tried listening to some popular Chinese songs to try and improve. When I listened, I felt closer to you. There’s this one song called Bao bei. Admittedly, the words went in one ear and out the other, but nonetheless, I continued listening, each time wishing that the words would mean something to me. I wished that I understood.
So, in Chinese class in high school, I worked hard to try and find meaning in those empty words. I listened intently in class and practiced Chinese with my friends in my free time. Last summer, I even took a trip back to China. There, I stayed with a host family in Beijing and attended the local public high school, Er Fu Zhong. I wondered if the life I was living there would have been similar to the life I could’ve had with you. Do you eat fruit at nine at night and wear slippers whenever you’re in the house? Do you watch Fei cheng wu rao, the dating show?
I did all of those things on my trip, although, not with you. And as much as I appreciated my host parents’ kindness and hospitality, I was always reminded of you––the Chinese parent, the Chinese mother, that I never knew. I was always secretly looking for you there as if you’d suddenly emerge amidst the crowd of millions and introduce yourself to me. I now realize that even if you saw me, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell that I’m your child. We share half of our DNA, yet we would probably walk past each other as if we were strangers. And the sad but true fact of the matter is that we are strangers. Our lives have been completely different from each other. While I’ve been growing up in America, you’ve been continuing your life in China. However, despite our separation, I am still your child, and nobody forgets about their children. Nor does a child ever forget their mother. And neither of them will ever forget that sort of connection. Because of this, I know that we will always remember, care for, and love each other in some sort of way.
Birth mother, I promise, if we ever do meet, I’ll speak with you in perfect Chinese. I’m getting better and better each day. I’m beginning to understand your language. I’m beginning to understand our past. I’m beginning to understand those songs I sought to understand. I want you to know that there will be a day when we can finally communicate with no interpreter between us. Our words, with their full impact, will reach each other.
But most importantly, I want you to know that giving me up was not a mistake. Whatever your reasons were, they were valid. You did not make a mistake. I’m sure you had your share of long nights, nights where you asked yourself if you made the right choice. Nights where you felt a pang of guilt so strong it could drag you out from your sleep and keep you awake until dawn comes. Sometimes, I admit that I have these kinds of nights as well where I wonder about the past and why I was given up. These thoughts are all natural. But I’d like to make it clear and perhaps put your mind at ease: I have never wished for a different life than I have now. I think that in giving me up, you gave me a new life––the best gift you could have given me. I hope you’re proud of the person I’m becoming.
好爱你 (Hǎo ài nǐ - With much love),
Lucy