by Joel L.A. Peterson
My mother – the wonderful woman
who adopted me despite already having four biological children of her
own – was a bright, educated, and deeply thoughtful person. So she had
been planning for my arrival from the orphanage in many ways. When I
arrived from Korea as her new son, I was nearly seven years old, and my
mother knew that Koreans did not eat the same breakfast that Americans
typically ate.
She reasoned that I was used to
eating rice, not cold cereal with milk. But she didn’t want to serve
me rice, which she thought could reinforce a sense of not belonging;
being treated as a foreigner, given non-typical America food. So she
had a plan. She would ease me through the transition from steamed rice.
The very first day, I was
seated at the breakfast table surrounded by my new parents, brother, and
three sisters. Mother put her plan into action as all the pairs of
blue eyes and faces framed by blonde hair looked on.
I didn’t speak any English. I
couldn’t understand anything that anyone was saying to me. It was just
so much noise. But I was old enough that I had internalized Korean
customs and manners. Even though I knew that this was my new family, my
Korean socialization urged me to remember that I needed to act like a
guest in their house.
In Korea, there are many social
rules covering all manner of situations and social settings. Everyone
has a specific role. Two of the most important roles were host and
guest. Other important roles were adult and child. As a child guest in
a strange adult host’s home, Korean custom demanded that I not
complain, not refuse any offered food or gift, and that I not leave any
food unfinished.
My mother set down a small bowl
of steaming hot oatmeal in front of me and placed a small spoon into it
and stirred. She sat down and the entire family looked on expectantly.
I looked from one set of blue eyes to the next around the table. I
looked down at the bowl. There was nothing about the bowl of oatmeal
that was remotely like rice. But to my mother’s Midwestern way of
thinking, it was similar.
I took a spoonful and put it in my mouth. It was awful. Horrible.
The texture, the taste, the stickiness of it were like nothing I had
ever eaten. I wanted to spit it out. But I was a guest and the
youngest child. I swallowed and almost threw up. I gagged and forced
it down my esophagus. I took another spoonful and forced myself to
swallow it too. I did this until it was all gone. I’d done my duty as a
guest. Everyone around the table was smiling and making their weird
English noises at me.
My life in America was off to a distasteful start.
But I had spent most of my life
in Korea in near starvation. I lived with my Korean mother until she
sent me to Korea Social Services to put me up for adoption when I was
six. She had little choice. As a single mother of a mixed race child,
she was stigmatized and outcast and could find no other work than in
American GI clubs. At times, we were reduced to begging on the streets.
She knew she could not support me and that I had little hope for a
future in Korean society.
So I had learned never to refuse food. No matter what.
The next day, the same thing
happened. And the next. And the next. But the servings of oatmeal
grew larger over time, eventually needing a bigger bowl. I somehow
managed to choke down every bowl, leaving each clean of any leftovers.
I thought this was some sort of American torture ritual that the
youngest in a family must endure.
In Korea, there were customs
that didn’t allow children certain adult foods or to use adult terms for
things until they had reached a certain age. I thought maybe it was
similar in America. While everyone else in the family got to eat
delicious looking cereal with milk, I thought I must be too young, and
was relegated to this God awful, goopy oatmeal stuff. I endured this
torture for six months. One day, my mother asked me if I wanted to try
some cereal, pointing to a box of raisin bran on the table. By now, I
could speak English and I understood her offer fully. I leaped at the
chance and grabbed the Raisin Bran box and poured myself a bowl full of
it. Dad poured the milk, since I was too small to safely hold the
heavy, large pitcher.
The first spoonful of raisin
bran was pure heaven! The taste was nutty but sweet, the texture
crunchy and the milk cool and quenching. I loved it! I must have eaten
Raisin Bran for the next two years. To this day, it’s my favorite
cereal.
Years later, I came home for
the first time from college. It was Christmas time and I came down for
my first home cooked breakfast since going out of state for school. And
there at my table place was a big steaming bowl of oatmeal.
“I thought I would make you a
treat,” Mom said. “You used to just love oatmeal when you first came
from Korea! You would always clean your bowl and we kept having to give
you bigger and bigger servings, because you would always eat it up.”
She smiled and gave one of her musical laughs. “I finally had to force
you to try something different! But it’s good to have you home for the
Holidays. So I made this special, just for you.” She beamed.
My mother is a wonderful woman – bright and well educated. And deeply thoughtful and giving.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I sat down and ate, cleaning the bowl while my mother smiled.
In his new book, Dreams of My Mothers,
author Joel L.A. Peterson brings his unique personal background as a
biracial international adoptee and combines it with his penetrating
insights into multiple cultures to create an exceptionally enthralling
and inspirational story. Learn more at www.dreamsofmymothers.com.
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