When I was a freshman in high school, I was walking to my geometry class for sixth period. A loud voice boomed down the hall, “Hey, Korean trash, go home!” In an almost exclusively White high school, I knew that the insult was being hurled at me.
Laughter rang and my face burned as I watched my peers slap the aggressor on the back in congratulatory fashion. I rushed into my classroom and tried to hold my head high as others nervously glanced my way. No one came to my defense, or even approached me about what had happened.
Humiliated, I thought to myself, “He’s right. I should go back.” But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t an option. I had no one to go back to.
I was adopted from Korea when I was a baby. Thankfully, my adoptive parents knew that I needed to become a U.S. citizen; countless international adoptees find themselves without citizenship as adults.
But the issue for many adoptees like myself is complex. I didn’t get a say in whether or not I was taken out of my home country, nor did I get to dictate who would raise me or where I would live. As a baby, I had no voice; as an adult, I find myself still without much of what I desire. I have no original birth certificate, no medical records, no pictures and a lack of any real information about the first three months of my life.
What many people don’t understand is that international adoptees are immigrants. This is an identity that I hold, albeit complex. When Trump was elected president, I became fearful that my citizenship would be questioned and that I would face an increase in the “go home” comments I received.
I was a new Ph.D. student at the University of Texas at Austin, now living in a conservative state where issues of immigration are nationally highlighted. Soon after, Texas passed SB4, known as the “show-me-your-papers law.” This increased my unrest and panic, and I spent months reeling, frantic that I would lose my passport or proof of naturalization. I emailed myself and my doctoral adviser a copy of my passport just in case.
