My earliest birth memory of Korea

My earliest memories of Korea are from the orphanage where I lived for about eight months before I was adopted.

I remember the winters being bitterly cold. I often wore a thick coat or heavy sweaters, and my nose was constantly running. I would wipe it on my sleeve until the sweater itself became soaked. I remember playing with the other children, especially on the swings in the playground.

I also remember one of the caregivers—a *bomo*—who watched over us while we slept. If I couldn't fall asleep, she would strike me with a newspaper rolled into a baton. I would lie awake on the floor, watching her beneath the dim fluorescent light beside her. She always seemed to have books with her, so I imagine she was reading or studying, perhaps preparing for a college entrance examination. My sleeplessness must have interrupted her concentration on many nights. Eventually, I would drift off to sleep.

Another memory from the orphanage was noticing that certain children would suddenly become "missing." I'd make friends with kids who didn't mind playing with me even though I couldn't hear, and then, one day, they would simply be gone. Where did they go? I often wondered.

One day, I finally grew tall enough to climb onto the high balcony by the window. It quickly became my favorite spot in the orphanage because I could look out and see the world beyond the building. We were on the second floor, and almost every morning I would watch a small white truck pull up to the curb. A man would get out, walk to the back, and unload something. Each time he opened the rear doors, white clouds of cold air would spill out. I had no idea that it was simply refrigerated air escaping.

Instead, my young mind created its own explanation. I became convinced that this was where the missing children went—that the man was taking them away in that truck. I told myself to stay far away from it and hoped I would never be caught and put inside.

When I returned to Korea in 2002, I saw the same kind of truck again.

It was just a refrigerated food delivery truck.

So much for my childhood imagination.

My final memory of Korea is the day I left.

Everything happened in a blur. My *bomo* hurriedly buttoned my coat, tied my shoes, placed a hat on my head, and folded my clothes into a suitcase. She held tightly to my hand as she rushed me from place to place until we climbed into a car.

I remember seeing tears on her face. As a child, I imagined she was crying because she would no longer have to deal with my troublesome, sleepless self. Looking back now, I wonder if those tears meant something entirely different.

Then we boarded the airplane.

I remember the cabin being mostly red inside. The lights stayed dim for much of the flight, and it seemed to last forever.

Eventually, the plane touched down. As I stepped out and walked through the jet bridge, I reached the end of the tunnel.

There, for the very first time, I met my parents.