Searching for Seoul: Sister Theresa part II

I talk more about my travel to South Korea and my visit to the baby home where I was an orphan, in part two of my story on Sister Theresa on my web (www.hanahawley.com). Read an excerpt below:

Everything I see makes sense, but it feels unreal and intangible. I breathe deeper, open my eyes wider. If I could dig my bare toes into the ground, scrunch the earth between my toes and somehow immerse myself in my surroundings I would. If it wouldn’t be rude, or be weird, I would walk off by myself for an hour or two, sit in the middle of the lawn somewhere, let the past find me.

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Photo by Etienne Boulanger

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SEARCHING FOR SEOUL: CHOPSTICKS

On my blog: Searching for Seoul, I talk about being an orphan, an adopted child, and a woman, seeking her identity. Last week, I went to Korea for the first time since I was seven years-old to meet the woman responsible for helping me find my birth dad last summer. Here is a short intro. You can read the FULL STORY at HanaHawley.com

The night I met Sister Theresa for the first time, she took me and Josiah to eat a traditional Korean meal at her friend’s restaurant. I felt spoiled, and loved, and slightly sad. I let my imagination run away from me. A glimpse into what goes on in my head sometimes, in this post called “Chopsticks.”

“Her eyes seep sadness. They sting like old wounds reopened–wide and gaping. I imagine for a moment that she sees her own abandoned daughter–a hint of the child she once knew in the shape of my face.”jakub-kapusnak-296881.jpg

(photo by Jacob Kapusnak for unsplash)

CH 5 A KOREAN IN JAPAN (Hanako)

Korean. I’m Korean. Did she speak Korean? Anyoung haseyo? A shake of the head. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Korean, either.” 

Sometimes, she couldn’t help but say, “sad, I know. Pathetic, really,” depending on how insecure she felt about it at the moment. (READ the rest of the chapter at my website.

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photo by Thien Dang on Unsplash

CH 3 AIRPORT LIMO

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photo by Jason Ortego

Without him, she would probably become a recluse; wear afghans around the house, order everything she needed online, live her life through social media, raise three dogs she would dress-up and treat like her children–too afraid to interact with the outside world for fear of failure or rejection. (Read More at HanaHawley.com)

I’m not that girl from the Beach Body DVDs…

“I can’t,” I say, loud enough for him to hear but hoping the girls won’t.

“I can’t do it.”

“You can,” he says, equally quiet.  “Just try it.”

I shake my head, taking in the sight of the other girls, their tight abs, their perfectly round backsides.  Their shapely legs pull in unison against the ropes, their bodies bent in two like the legs of a shiny metal compass completing measurements.  I’m flanked by them- out, in, out, in.  Their tight bodies strain against the effort but the girls still manage to look like they’re filming a Beach Body DVD.

That would make me the –you can do it too person sweating in the background while the pros glisten and glow up front near the instructor.  The sweat from my effort on the treadmill ten minutes ago is still evaporating from my skin and surrounded by these girls who can, I find myself choking on the humiliations of the past.

I see grade school me, shoulders slumped in defeat, eyes cast down and boring holes into my white Reeboks as I toe the blue tape of the shiny gym floor.   I’m overwhelmed by a sense of ineptitude, of invisibility.  I listen despondently as names are yelled enthusiastically from the team captains standing before me.  Will they remember my name this time or will I be the last one called, my name then becoming irrelevant?

Then, as expected, the voices calling the names take on another tone. They deign to divvy up the lesser of the less.  I can hear them roll their eyes and sympathize with each other on having to take that girl who plays violin and doesn’t play sports.

I try to lift my body in a similar fashion but land on my hands and knees.  I feel as though the Beach Body girls are judging me from the corner of their eyes, already deciding to pick me last.

Before the grade school me becomes paralyzed on the gym floor I pick myself up and leave.  I feel bad for the kids facing team captains all over the world but I’m not trapped in those situations anymore.  My worth isn’t based on the number of people I can hit with a dodge ball.  So I go, marveling that wounds from the past could still hurt in new ways.