Korean Adoptee

How home cooking brings comfort and a sense of belonging | By Suni Miller Zmich (Spring 2022 issue)

According to my infant medical records, when I was nearly a year old, I only weighed eight pounds – the same as my oldest daughter’s birthweight.

I am a Korean adoptee, but my parents rarely acknowledged my Koreaness as a child because I rejected it when they tried. I remember eating Korean food only twice during my childhood, but I loved the traditional Jewish and southern food that came with my family. Surely, my need to savor was brought on by the malnourishment I endured as an infant.

Food is primal for me, probably because of my rough start in life. It is my obsession.

Recently, I drove home with two-and-a-half gallons of kimchi, sporting red splatters on my coat from the gochugaru (Korean red chili powder) mixture, looking like a victorious paintball player. Over my lifetime, as a Korean adoptee in a white family, I haven’t known many other Koreans, and have had very few chances to be in a close community with any. For much of my life, I felt very white, despite what the mirror (and others) told me every day.

Serendipitously, I had been invited to a kimjang – a traditional collective making of kimchi. The energetic group of ladies at the event were welcoming as we gathered outside. A few were “Korean-Koreans” (i.e., Korean immigrants who have been making kimchi since childhood), but most were Korean adoptees like me. As we chopped vegetables and mixed the ingredients with our gloved hands, camaraderie and obscene amounts of garlic were enfolded into the concoction. We joked about motherhood and Asian babysitters – sending us into fits of laughter.

Afterwards, I wondered if acceptance is exactly what the kimjang tradition was meant to nurture – a time when Koreans are unguarded and understood. Being included brought a sense of completeness that I subconsciously searched for my entire life (not to take an inch away from my American family’s Jewish and redneck traditions). As a nomadic Army brat, I never knew that Korean adoptee communities existed in America until recently.

Last year, when I spoke to Joy H., one of the interviewees for my book, Through the Lens of Ourselves, she described a “subtle internal click” that happened when she met her Polish biological family. A significant portion of our conversation was dedicated to nuanced Polish recipes. Her newfound heritage has given her an excuse to eat kielbasa, the sausage she loved her whole life. The completeness she felt washed over me as she talked about her birth father’s family Christmas tradition of making pierogis (think: flat half-moon shaped ravioli boiled and sautéed in butter and garlic).

Reflecting on my satisfying kimjang day, I thought “Now I get it.” My “click” was raucous and permeating. Who would have thought that kimchi could not only be healing for my digestive system, but also for my soul? I knew also that it was not just the kimchi produced, but that the satisfaction came from doing something so basically Korean with other Korean people, and the acceptance I felt from that gathering.

Food has always been central to my family. From my adoptive Jewish family on my mother’s side, I learned about the healing properties of matzo ball soup, the equivalent of American chicken soup. My beloved grandmother taught me an adaptation of the traditional recipe. After cooking the stock for hours, she would mash the vegetables and garlic through a colander, returning them to the pot to create a thicker and more rustic soup. Traditionalists say that the vegetables are “spent” after boiling them and should be discarded. I disagree. They still offer textural and visual value. The miniature pieces of carrots lend a welcoming rich color to the dish and create a comforting and substantial mouthful.

Similarly, years later, when I tried the Korean soup yukgaejang for the first time, I immediately understood it to be the equivalent to matzo ball soup. The bold reddish color reminded me of an amped up version of my grandmother’s recipe. The beef bones are simmered for hours with vegetables to slowly develop a depth of flavor.

I have had both soups at different times when I’ve been under the weather. The matzo ball soup reminds me that I am loved by my Jewish family. The yukgaejang makes me feel better physically and simultaneously reminds me of how I yearn for familial tradition. The flavors are addictive, and the experience is psychologically familiar. The taste is of something I once lost as an infant and now rediscovered through my senses.  The spiciness of the broth opens my sinuses, allowing me to breathe both literally and metaphorically. I can taste the minerals from the shiitake mushrooms – almost as if they were plucked from Asian soil, giving me a glimpse into the lives of my ancestors. I can picture my Jewish grandmother having tea with those ancestors in the afterlife.

My aunt once told me that after my parents adopted me, my grandmother became obsessed with all things Asian. Even though I spent a lifetime often feeling out of place due to my adoption, the time spent with my grandmother was the exception. Being with her, and in her house, was always a homecoming experience. Our relationship revolved around food – she would take me to fancy restaurants – just the two of us.

The heart of her house was a supersized gourmet kitchen, complete with two types of grills, two sinks, state of the art appliances, and matzo ball soup made with love. At one point, she gave me her porcelain china and formal dining room furniture – they are now beautiful antiques. Her spirit joins us at the table for holiday meals, as we sip from Limoges teacups painted with Asian designs. When I open the cabinet doors, I swear I can smell her house and the hundreds of meals she served.

Recently, a friend and I joked about how I lucked out having a Jewish family, since Jewish and Korean cultures share so many values. Both cultures carve out distinct divisions between right and wrong, and coloring outside moral lines is not negotiable. Righteous outrage at injustice is expected. Education is paramount. But it is our love of food that brings Jewish and Korean family members back to the table over and over.

In contrast to my mother’s Jewish family, my dad’s family members are self-proclaimed rednecks (of the Appalachian hillbilly variety). Growing up, my mom and dad used to joke about how “red” his neck was. When I was a child, I thought they were referring to his skin color because he has some Cherokee roots, and his neck is tinged with red undertones that are pronounced when he tans.

From my redneck relatives, I learned about the importance of slow-cooked grits and the joy of biscuits made from scratch. I remember my dad fondly talking about visiting his grandfather in coal-country Kentucky. They would have a grand-slam breakfast before a full day of manual labor, fueling up to make it through the workday. It recently occurred to me that the love needed to create country home-cooked breakfasts is not unlike the soulful effort put into kimchi-making. Kentucky breakfasts are made to last through long workdays. Kimchi is created to last for months. Both are made with love and intention. Both are shared rituals.

For most of my lifetime, I wasn’t so sure that my redneck sensibilities fit well with my Korean roots. However, I have come to the conclusion that when it comes to our attitudes about food, we match. Whenever I would visit my dad’s parents, Granny would stuff me with American junk food, potatoes and gravy, and packaged white bread slathered with butter. As we left, she would insist I take a handful of candy bars for my trip home. Proffering food was her version of love. As an adoptee, I think I somehow understood that, never turning down a serving.

When my Jewish grandmother learned about the non-nutritious food I indulged in while at Granny’s house, she was aghast, telling me I needed to say “no thank you.” I never did. How could I reject someone’s love when that’s what I craved my entire life?

My obsession with food is probably a big part of why I fell in love with my husband. When we dated, he cooked for me, and when I had his garlic-forward alfredo sauce for the first time, I knew I was in trouble. He cooks about 90 percent of our dinners, and for 32 years he has shown me his love over and over.

As young adults, my husband and I gravitated towards the European peasant cuisines rich in aromatics. As we developed our palates, I realized garlic was the constant thread in our adventures. As we moved across culinary continents, our exploration of Asia brought us to Korean cuisine, lured by its abundant use of garlic and spice.

As child, I loved when others cooked for me – it gave me a sense of belonging. As an adult, I still love being fed, but I love to cook for others too. Breakfast is my favorite meal to make for my daughters – certainly a vestige of my redneck heritage. Fill ‘em up before sending them out into the world.

My daughters are now busy adults and come home when they can. We are all looking forward to our next visit because I bought large kitschy glass containers which will be transformed into kimchi jars. My girls are excited to participate in our first family kimchi-making party, a kimjang. And I am equally excited to nourish their souls with the Korean tradition of love.

Renee Good’s murder reminds us that compassion is also a foundation of democracy | By S.K. Lo (Winter 2026)

The recent killing of a young woman by an ICE agent in Minneapolis has shaken our community and raised urgent questions about the direction of federal immigration enforcement. As a Minneapolis area resident who watched the released video, I was struck not only by the tragedy itself but by what was missing: Any clear evidence that the woman posed a threat to the agent who took her life.

She was Renee Nicole Good, a white woman in her 30s, an unexpected victim that shattered my own assumptions about who is vulnerable in today’s climate of aggressive immigration policing.

This incident does not stand alone. Minneapolis has seen hundreds of ICE arrests in recent months, a surge that feels less rooted in public safety concerns and more aligned with political promises and enforcement quotas. The pattern suggests a troubling shift: Immigration raids carried out not because they are necessary, but because they are symbolic. They serve as political theater rather than thoughtful policy.

The consequences extend far beyond Minneapolis. In Wisconsin, Judge Hannah Dugan, who allowed an undocumented immigrant out a side door of her building so he could avoid ICE officers who came looking for him, was found guilty of impeding or obstructing a federal proceeding. Just this month, Duggan resigned from the bench after Wisconsin’s top legislative Republicans announced they would take actions to impeach Dugan unless she resigned “immediately.” Dugan’s attorneys have indicated they intend to file for a new trial.

This example shows how aggressively the political system now punishes even small acts of compassion or discretion. It is hard to avoid the conclusion that the compassionate Americans who once shaped this country’s moral compass are no longer the ones steering its policies.

The issue of undocumented immigration is undeniably complex. People come to the U.S. for countless reasons, including economic opportunity, family reunification, or simply the hope of a safer life. More recently, waves of refugees have arrived because of wars that the U.S. itself has been involved in. Many elder Korean Americans and elder Southeast Asian Americans know this story intimately. Families displaced by conflict, were resettled here, but their children can be later denied citizenship due to bureaucratic gaffs or youthful mistakes.

Some immigrants, including a small number of non-citizen Korean adoptees, are facing deportation to countries they have never set foot in. The cruelty of sending someone “home” to a place that is not home at all cannot be overstated. At its core, this crisis forces us to confront a fundamental contradiction in American identity.

With the exception of Native Americans, every American is descended from immigrants. Yet some immigrants are treated as more legitimate, more deserving, or more “American” than others. This hierarchy betrays the founding ideal that all men are created equal.

And yet, amid the fear and division, moments of humanity still shine through. Renee Good was performing an act of compassion, observing ICE activity and standing up for justice at a time when her non-white neighbors were not able to show their faces for fear of unlawful detention.  She was randomly shot, but she was at that place and time intentionally, as an act of love for her neighborhood.

At the recent “No Kings” rally in Minneapolis, I saw a white woman holding a handmade sign that read: “We love our immigrant neighbors.” When I asked her why she made it, she told me she was a third-generation immigrant herself, and so were her neighbors. Her simple message cut through the noise: Compassion is not dead in America. It is simply being drowned out by louder, harsher voices.

The killing in Minneapolis should be a wake-up call. It is time to demand accountability, to question policies driven by politics rather than justice, and to reaffirm the values that once made this country a beacon of hope. Our immigrant neighbors deserve dignity, safety, and the chance to belong. And we, as a nation, deserve leaders who remember that compassion is not weakness. It is the foundation of democracy.

The Sense of Wonder ~ By Matthew Salesses

Matthew Salesses pens a new novel of a game where the rules are different for some players

(Little, Brown and Company, New York, 2023, ISBN #978-0-3164-2571-1)

Review by Bill Drucker (Fall 2025)

Not that long ago, in the world of American professional basketball, two outstanding Asian players came on the scene, the Chinese superstar Yao Ming and Harvard-educated Chinese American Jeremy Lin. Despite their popularity and winning performances on the court, the media didn’t know how to deal with them.  Fans loved them, but there persisted a strong undercurrent of anti-Asian prejudice.

One story about Lin was that when he was at Harvard, he walked across the gym floor, and heard a coach or other staff member snarl, “The science building is across the commons.”  Lin felt pressure to constantly prove himself on the court, as a college player and as a professional. 

As a player, Lin had outstanding seasons in 2011-2012 as point guard for the New York Knicks.  Fans loved him and the enthusiasm was called “Linsanity.” Nonetheless, he was passed over (or snubbed) for the National Basketball Association (NBA) All Stars team.  He played other American basketball franchises, and then decided to play in Asia.  A six-foot-two-inch, 200 pound player in his prime, known for passing and shooting, Lin was cheered by fans, but razzed by the reporters, opposing fans, and even other players. 

Shaquille O’Neal was pressured to make a public apology for one anti-Asian crack.  Lin and Tiger Woods, another professional athlete who is also Asian, took the high road and accepted the apology without further fanfare.  During the pandemic’s Asian-hate era, his Asian identity was often insultingly thrown back in his face. However, looking back, Lin’s career had many highs and few controversies. His biggest fault seems to have been playing pro basketball while Asian.

Fast forward to 2023.  Inspired by the Lin narrative, seasoned novelist (and Korean adoptee) Matthew Salesses has produced a bristling satire of a fictional Asian player (Won Lee, of Korean heritage), and of the NBA franchise with all its bureaucracy and many faults.  Salesses throws in for good measure the issues of masculinity, sports role models, fandom, racism, and the the very flawed international K-drama industry.

The author portrays women working in or adjacent to the world of men’s professional sports as (refreshingly) unique individuals. Wives are hardly sports wives (whatever that is).  There are no bench warmers or cheerleaders to be found.  

The author puts the character of Won as the first person narrator in the first part of the story, as he struggles to position himself in the sports world. Despite his obvious talent and drive, the stubborn team coach browbeats Won and keeps him benched, trying to maintain control over him. However, Won knows the drill.  As a newbie NBA player, he needs to take on the role of the token Asian while also being a team player.  He is also the coach’s whipping boy.  The coach can hold the player’s contract over his head.  If Won doesn’t play, his season is over. 

The author introduces some other interesting characters to the mix. Won’s significant other Carrie Kang, a TV producer, is smart, sexy, and brutally honest.  With Won waffling, Carrie is inclined to knock some sense into him, rather than hold his hand. 

There is also a (Korean adoptee) reporter Robert Sung, who is a basketball washout, never having risen through the ranks as a player. He brags to Won early on that he and superstar Paul Burton, the Knicks captain (dubbed Powerball or PB) were teammates in high school. Sung takes Won under his wing, but Won smartly stays on the defensive, perceiving quickly that Sung is an opportunist and known to be vindictive in his writing to those who get on his bad side.

When Won leads the team in a seven-game winning streak (which was also a Jeremy Lin accomplishment), the media and fans go wild.  They dubbed him “the Wonder.”  It should be his moment, but the coach continues to invest more in the talents of the superstar PB.  PB likes the Asian point guard but also holds back; he is aloof as team captain. The rest of the team aren’t acting like Won’s friends either. 

Sung writes about Won as a rising star.  Sung, in his vindictiveness, both loves and envies PB.  He praises fellow Korean Won at first but uses him as a wedge against PB.  Sung’s jealousies about the success of his one-time high school teammate undermine Won and eventually destroy PB’s personal life.

Won himself is fan of PB on the court, but his personal drive and competitive nature get the better of him. Instead of treating him as a valuable asset and team member, Won sees PB as a rival.  As Salesses portrays it, the game gets to all of them; players, coaches, the sportswriter, and the wives. 

After close contact on court with PB, Won injures his leg.  Everything he has lived for stops cold in its tracks.  Won’s coach and team drop their investment of time and energy in him. Only PB shows some remorse.

Sung uses the incident to go after PB in his writing, and all the years of pent-up aggression against him surface.  When Sung can’t get enough satisfaction from blaming the team’s misfortunes on PB, he begins to blame Won for the bad luck.  It is an extreme, high-visibility example of how when you win, everybody loves you; but the moment you drop the ball, you are the team’s scapegoat.

Only Carrie Kang continues to support Won.  After the Won character is the lead protagonist and first-person narrator, Carrie’s well-developed character takes over as narrator.  From her vantage point,  Carrie recognizes Won’s many talents on and off the court, his sheer talent, and his maturity in dealing with direct and indirect racial assaults and the many personalities of the world Won inhabits.  She also sees his many faults.

Carrie has her own separate issues.  Her beloved sister is dying of cancer.  Carrie has very different views about confronting the disease compared with her sister’s acquiescing husband and their confused Korean family. 

She is also an ambitious K-drama producer, working on both sides of the Pacific. After hooking up with Won, she gets the idea for a new K-drama about the life of an NBA star.  In Korea, she deals with the Korean-ness of K-drama production politics and practices.  Interestingly, her struggles mirror those of Won, except they are on a different playing field. Carrie sees that she has to play the game, which for her is fraught with extra complications because she is a woman and a Korean American.  Won and Carrie are both enduring their own industry’s big egos who attempt to hold them back, frustrating their success and inflicting many irksome microaggressions.  

The Sense of Wonder is a briskly-paced, razor sharp, and entertaining read. Salesses is on fire in this story, pulling in diverse topics that create a cohesive narrative that is also wildly funny and insightful. Every page has something to say.  He takes sharp jabs at the NBA, American sports fandom, and anti-Asian racism.  He throws in a terrific sub-narrative that is like a K-drama 101 lesson chapter. He treats us to his criticism of the Asian American experience, including his observation of the skewed views of Asian masculinity

This author skillfully barrels down the court, treating us to some creative moves in his unwinding of this tale.  Original, confident and deftly written, the story is totally readable in just a few sittings.

Matthew Salesses is an award-nominated author of seven books.  As a Korean adoptee, he often integrates in his writings the issues of inter-racial adoption, identity, race and racism.  Salesses lives in New York City and teaches writing at Columbia University.