Home    |    News & Events     |    Articles    |    Forum    |    Photographs    |     Resources     |     Store      |     Membership     |     About AAAW

AAAW Home Page
 

4 Men

By Chris Brownlee

 
 
 
I have a photo taped to the bulletin board over my desk at work. The photo depicts four grown men hugging each other in a circle, their heads bowed and obscured from the camera's eye. They vary in their dress, their height, their complexions, and their lives. I was crying as I took that picture, as were all four of the men - it is clear, even though no tears can be seen. Many emotions surface as I look at the image, as they did when I first took the picture. The emotions conjured are not necessarily positive or negative. They are unquestionably real but as amorphous as mist over a lake in the morning. You can feel the coolness of it on your skin, see it in the air, taste it in your throat when you breath in, but it is not something that you can hold in your arms, or inspect under a microscope.

The emotions manifested are many. Loss. Grief. Anguish. Bitterness. Confusion. Insecurity. Death. Abandonment. Defeat. Sorrow. Rejection. Pain. Disillusionment. Powerlessness. Fear. All of these can be seen in the bowed heads, the hands clinging to backs or arms for support, the closeness of their collective embrace. Many other things can be seen as well. Other emotions whirl by such as Hope. Love. Security. Compassion. Joy. Empathy. Relief. Gratitude.

I cried because all four of those men in the photo are my brothers, and we had met for the first time in our adult lives less than 48 hours ago. Swimming through a myriad of emotions, we found ourselves at the Vietnam Memorial, our reflections in the imposing black granite blurred from the names etched in stone, and from our own tears. There were more than just five of us there. We had been accompanied by a legion of others such as ourselves, men and women with disparate lives and experiences, yet bound together with ties that made us a family regardless of our individual mothers or fathers. We cried and laughed as a family, and healed ourselves of our wounds by healing each other.

Forty-eight hours prior to my tearful snapshot, I arrived in Baltimore, Maryland for the 25-year reunion of 1st generation Vietnamese adoptees. I was scared, nervous, hopeful, and excited all at the same time. This was my first trip to Baltimore, and my first time ever being in the company of so many others like me. I don't speak a word of Vietnamese. I know virtually nothing about Vietnamese culture. All truth on the table, I didn't even know how to correctly pronounce "Tran Quoc Tuan," which is my birth name. After I checked into my reserved bed and breakfast room, I began to walk the 2 miles it took to get to the Tressler Lutheran Services Center where the reunion would take place.

After about a 1/2 mile of disorientation and getting used to the streets of Baltimore, I started getting nervous. At about 1 and 1/2 miles I sat down on a bench to collect my thoughts. "What the hell am I doing here?" "Why am I so nervous?" "What's with the weird knot in my stomach?" After rationalizing all of these uneasy feelings to fatigue and not having slept or eaten since the day before, I continued my walk, cigarette between my lips to calm my jittery nerves.

Because I was a bit early, and because I definitely didn't want to be the first one at the Tressler Center, I stopped through Baltimore's beautiful "Inner Harbor," and sat listening to various performers singing and playing instruments on the pier. In retrospect, I wasn't really listening to the music at all. In actuality, I listened to the buzzing in my ears; tens, then hundreds, then thousands of questions too numerous to make sense of, coming too rapidly for me to even acknowledge. It was a familiar buzz, but usually one that visited me on sleepless nights, not in the beautiful afternoon sun. These questions have haunted me my entire life. Questions that I have always been too reluctant to face head on for whatever reason, but they returned to me now, persistent and droning in my ears and in my heart.

****

After lingering until 1/2 an hour past the opening registration time, I figured that enough of the other adoptees would have registered so that I could make a discreet entrance into the Tressler Lutheran Services Building and observe my surroundings. I was focusing on my shoes when I walked in, still a little nervous and having flashbacks from grade school - the old apprehension of immediately being looked at by the entire class on the first day of school, and trying to guess what they were thinking; "Who's that?" "He looks weird." "I wonder if he can speak english." The muted giggles and discreet looks sent to other classmates; "I wonder if that Chinese kid knows his pants are too short." "What's up with the sandals?" "Ummmm...highwaters went out of style, like, 3 years ago."

I have three older sisters biological to my adoptive parents and one younger brother, who was adopted from Seoul, Korea. My parents were never well-off, so we made do with what we had. Of course, an uncomfortable consequence of having three older sisters and a limited budget was that I inherited all of the hand-me-downs from my sisters. At a time where Michael Jackson, breakdancing, Valley Girls, and Izod T-shirts were all the rage, a kid wearing 4th-in-line pants with "puffy paint" sunflowers painted on them was not looked favorably upon by his peers.

Growing up, none of my siblings or I knew discomfort, or felt as if our needs weren't met. In my early childhood, my mother was a homemaker, and my father was a self-employed cabinetmaker. Thinking only in terms of economic richness is deceiving, for it is quite possible (and my parents are proof of this) that richness is infinitely more than the narrow definition of money or cool clothes. I was rich because I had my family. The love and support from my parents and family was (and is) boundless. It is they who have shaped my morals, values, and principles of life that I try to live by each day.

However, my family's unconditional love and support does not define who I am. It was up to me to realize my identity. It proved a harder task than would be expected. I was brought up in a predominantely caucasian community twenty miles outside of Boston, MA. Being one of the few "others" - and I do remember filling in the oval marked "Other" instead of "White" or "Black" on standardized tests and other surveys - pretty much defined my identity for me. Being an "other" was my identity because I let it define me. It wasn't until much later that I took ownership of my "otherness," and learned to define myself.

****

Still preoccupied by my thoughts, I was startled out of my insecurities and reminiscing by someone calling my name. I looked up to see a man standing in front of me. It was Roger, one of three adoptees I had met (at least over the phone) before the reunion. We excitedly shook hands, and all my ghosts were banished by the warmth of his smile. Thus began my weekend.

****

It would be impossible to encapsulate the entire reunion in words. It was a weekend full of many firsts, and it was completely overwhelming. For the first time in my life I was with other people like me. Not only similar to me in terms of ethnicity or age, but in experiences as well. For the first time in my life I didn't have to explain myself. For the first time in my life I didn't feel the frustration of knowing that those that heard my story could only sympathize, instead of empathize. It seems a small semantical difference, but knowing an experience intellectually is a whole world apart from knowing an experience emotionally. I was finally amongst those that "got it."

We were all in various stages of our own "processes." Some of us had discovered that we wanted to return to Vietnam. Some of us wanted to find our birth parents. Some of us were content in the security and love afforded to us through our adoptive parents. Others weren't as satisfied and had a very tough road; drug abuse, depression, neglect, sexual and physical abuse. Some of us had already been back to Vietnam, some had found our birth parents. Others were scared to start. It was all accepted, not labeled as good or bad, happy or sad, better or worse. It simply was. This was our collective reality.

The first day of the reunion was mostly social. Roger and I were stuck together like glue, since we had already spoken before the reunion. Roger is about six and a half years older than me, the older brother I have never had. We had discovered through a woman that we both knew that we were both on the same flight out of Vietnam. The woman's name was Karen Walker Ryan, a beautifully compassionate woman whose care for us while in transit from one world to another had once again reunited us in Baltimore. Both of us had stayed in the same orphanage operated by Holt Children's Services International. Roger and I, after mingling and meeting some other adoptees sat out on the steps of the Tressler Center like two long-lost friends with a lifetime of catching up to do. When I was talking with Roger, I felt a sudden warmth inside of me. It was a little odd - a small stirring, and then a vibrant hum. We had experienced such different upbringings and life events, our personalities and views molded and shaped by different circumstances, but the vibrant hum that was inside of me was achingly familiar, and probably the last feeling that I would have expected to surface. It was the feeling I used to get as a kid when my family and I would return from a vacation - an excited ache in my chest when we pulled into the driveway after being gone for 3 weeks camping. It wasn't the sight of my house that triggered it, or the smell of the grass in the yard, the feel of the slate walkway on my bare feet as I charged back into the house, the comfort of my cluttered and ever-messy room. The ache in my chest was an association, a culmination of feelings and sensations that meant only one thing. Home.

****

Baltimore's Inner Harbor is beautiful at night. The breeze that skims off of the harbor is cool and crisp, and we were cold. Despite the chill, we shared stories, experiences, and bonded over drinks and conversation. There were about twenty-five of us there, laughing and joking. Shy smiles and introductions were made, some of us already at home with our newfound friends, some of us just getting acquainted. Others just sat back sipping on their drinks and observing the scene, small half-smiles on their faces.

I was completely giddy, not from the alcohol, but from the sense of community, of family. More than once I had the feeling that I had known these people my entire life - and why not? We could have been babies in the same orphanage, or secured under the same seatbelt on a 747, been held by the same nurse. We could have been family to begin with, with all legal ties eradicated by the chaotic flurry of paperwork that heralded our departure from a ravaged nation - one where all sides seemed to have forgotten about innocence. I had known these people, my people, my entire life. As the night and the reunion progressed, more bonds and connections began to reveal themselves to me. More questions arose. Some solace was found. More pain and joy was awakened inside of me that had laid dormant for years.

****

It wasn't until about fourth grade that the name-calling started, and I could no longer deny that I was different. "Chinese, Japanese, all mixed up," accompanied by little fingers slanting eyes upward for Chinese, downward for Japanese, and then in all directions for the "all mixed up" visual gag was always good for a laugh in fourth grade. As alluded to before, filling in the oval marked "Other" was always a sign that even though I was naturalized as an American citizen in 1978, I was still different, no matter how much I wanted to be the same as everyone else. Why would no one let me sit next to them on the bus? Why was I teased? Why did people automatically assume that I was really good at math and science? Why did everyone assume I knew karate? Why am I Chinese, Japanese, and all mixed up?

Sixth grade was when it all changed. Adolescence can be a rough time for every child. The struggle for identity, independence - In my mind I sarcastically referred to it as "the sixth grade popularity rift." The time of early adolescence where EVERYONE needed to fit in. Everyone needed to belong, to establish a peer group, where every child looked for similarities and common ground between them in order to feel secure. The need to distance ourselves from our parents, to become our own persons and try new things made us more independent. However, we still searched for comfort and a sense of belonging - a basic human need that we all strive for in one way or another throughout life. Most kids found this comfort and sense of security through their peers. Cliques were formed in middle school based on looks, on wealth, on sports, and we categorized ourselves accordingly. I fit into none.

In high school, I realized that being an "other" was my biggest strength and my biggest weakness. I realized that I didn't want to fit in. I didn't want to be categorized have assumptions made about me based on my ethnicity or where I grew up. I was different because the world told me so, and I figured, in my teenage "wisdom," that I would make sure that I couldn't be categorized. If my peers and community wouldn't take me for me, then they wouldn't have me at all.

****

On Saturday, the second day of the reunion, we gathered for breakfast. Most of us were pretty bleary-eyed from the night before, a lot of socializing and late-night conversations kept us all out pretty late. More than a few of us were hung over. Despite my early morning stupor I was excited and anxious to start the day, and what a day it was.

"We came over with nothing but the clothes on our backs, but we brought more baggage than anyone can imagine..."

A quote that came from an adoptee Saturday morning. Although not a verbatim quote, the implications of the adoptee's statement were far-reaching. We did come over with baggage. We came over with a whole other world locked inside of us, a world that we didn't know, but nonetheless a world that claimed us as its own - imprinted into our physical characteristics. Devoid of any cultural ties, we made our ways into our new world, our new families, and our new culture, and we all tried to forge a new identity. For me, it was harder than I could have ever imagined.

****

"Who am I?"

A universal question that everyone shares around the world. As an adolescent, it was the question that drove me crazy day and night. It was the question that made me angry - angry at my birth parents for giving me up. Angry at my adoptive parents for not having the answers I sought. Angry at my neighborhood, who all looked different than me. Angry at my classmates and teachers, who said through politically correct rhetoric and "enlightened diversity" lectures, "Be colorblind, it is what is inside that counts," but treated me such that I knew that there is no such thing as being colorblind. I was supposed to be good in science. I had to be good in math. I was expected to already know how to type and be a computer genius. My race DID matter, and value judgements were being made about me because of my almond-shaped eyes, because of my broad nose, because of my jet-black hair, because I was short and wiry, because I was Asian. And I hated it.

"What am I?"

For years I tried to fit into everyone else's categories. I was Vietnamese...but not really. I didn't fit in with the Asian communities in Boston because my parents were white. Because I grew up "white." I was a "banana," a "twinkie," yellow on the outside, but white on the inside. I didn't fit in with America, although Americans loudly profess that the United States is a "great melting pot." I learned that lesson in high school, but quickly rejected it, because I wasn't "truly" American - I learned that from my classmates. I was an American citizen, but not American.

Unlike other Americans, Vietnamese adoptees have nothing to fall back on to define ourselves. We are Vietnamese by nationality, but cannot claim to be Vietnamese by ethnicity. We are American by culture, but are rejected by many of those that claim the same cultural commonality. Being adopted from another culture was my greatest strength and greatest weakness.

Strength. I wasn't truly Vietnamese. To others, I wasn't truly American. I became strong because I was forced to create my own identity. No one could categorize me, no matter how hard they tried. I was therefore forced to rely on myself. To rely on the lessons that I was taught in life, from my parents and family who loved me unconditionally. From the hateful ones that spit on me. From the innocent and ignorant, who would ask, "Where are you from? No, no, where are you from?" These lessons have helped me create who I am today. But many questions remain unanswered.

Weakness. I was scared and alone. I was cut off from feeling like I truly belonged anywhere. I was constantly misunderstood - if I walked into a store with my sister, the shopkeeper would think that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. Job interviewers that talked with me on the phone would be flabbergasted when they met me in person. "Wow! You speak really good English," or "How long have you lived in the US for," or "What kind of name is Brownlee?" I laugh when people put emphasis on "Lee." After all I'm Asian, I must be related to Bruce in some way, shape, or form. It's actually Scottish/Irish, but I've learned that some must attempt to put me in some frame of reference. I grew up happy and loved by my family. I also grew up feeling like a stranger in my own home, in my own country. I grew up knowing that others wouldn't, couldn't understand.

****

They understood. They understood with a clarity that frightened me, but excited me all at the same time. I was amongst my own, for the first time in my life. And I was happy, happier than I had ever been in my life. I cried on Saturday. I cried tears of joy, of pain, of loss. I haven't cried like that since I was a child, lying in bed and trying desperately to picture my birth mother's face. To hear her voice, to feel her touch. To see my birth father's face, to learn the life lessons that get passed from father to son.