Lately I have been going to sleep with the same thought buzzing through my head. “I hate myself” the voice says as I try desperately to lull myself to sleep. Now a days I have two fans buzzing and music playing to try and drown out these wicked thoughts and it works to an extent. But I can’t help but remember when I wake up each morning the last thought that went through my head was, “I hate myself”. 



Why is it that I think this?

Why is it that I feel this way?


I wonder sometimes within my conscience and some times aloud. How did it get this way. When did I become such a negative bastard. I try and look for the good, the purple patches, but all I see is a man who has nothing to behold. 


But who is it that I have become, besides a self destructing worm.

Who was the man before him?


I really can’t be bothered for answers. I seem to think that before all this went pear shaped I was living in delusion. Maybe I thought my position was higher than it actually was. But I can’t be sure and there in lies the problem. How do I know who I am or if I am being myself if everything I have based upon is so unsure. 


Am I am man of character and subustance?

Am I resilient with a persevering attitude?


Am I Korean, American, White, Brown, Adopted, Asian, Refugee, Orphan?


Well who the fuck knows. I surely don’t. For a long time I was told I was one thing, then I was told I was another, then another. Then after that I was told I wasn’t this or I wasn’t that. Each time my self image was twisted and bent. Previous tags had become null or repeated. Even more part of images seemed to overlap, whilst some were renamed and chopped and changed for others. 


So today I am left with a very dull and rather confusing image of who I am. Some will say that I should not listen to others and listen to my heart. Only there will I find the true image of who I am. My reply would be a thank you for the advice, but my heart has long since abandoned me and I suspect is on a beach somewhere in Croatia.


Croatia??? Why the fuck would it go there. Well it heard the beaches there are quite divine as are the women, and it is on the Mediterranean after all so the food is probably half way decent. So Croatia it is, let him be happy, God knows it was nothing but strife living with me. 


So the question still begs, how am I not myself.


I don’t know why I remembered today but I did. Maybe it was because I saw you today and I was thinking about you a lot. It’s odd because I see you often enough, so I don’t know why I thought of this. To be honest I had tucked it away because I was so shameful, I was so horrible. I really was a petulant and wretched little cunt back then, it is a wonder you are still my friend. 


I’m sorry.


I know I’ve said sorry to you before for acting like I did, but it shames me so much. I threw snowballs at your face, I pushed you to the ground, I called you those names. How could I. Standing right there in your face, laughing, I called you a gook, a chink, a jap. I am ashamed now for treating you like that and I was ashamed back then for being the same as you. 


We were kids, but that was no excuse for me to humiliate you like that. The names that other kids called me I just deflected onto you. I know you say that it didn’t hurt, but it hurt me well enough so I can only imagine how you must have felt. Maybe that’s why even today you try to fit in as much as possible.


Thats all I was trying to do, just fit in. I wanted to be just like all the other kids in our church school. Making fun of the funny looking Korean kids (we were the only ones), calling them names that didn’t make sense, names that we didn’t even know the meaning of. I wanted to be white and I most surely didn’t want to be different. So I picked on you. But picked isn’t even the right words, I was a monster. 


I’m sorry.


Then a few year later we were teenagers and I called you out of the blue. We rehashed a friendship that certainly shouldn’t have even exsisted. And you came to the formal with me. You were the first girl I really kissed and the first girl I knew I was in love with. 


We maintained our friendship all through high-school although it was hard with you going to a different school. And I still loved you, although I never told you and I would never have admitted it to myself, at least not at the time. I wish i had. I wish I had apologized to you sooner. I wish I wouldn’t have been so scared of loving you. 


I still remember lying on the living room floor, not knowing what I was doing, kissing you. Feeling simply over the moon that I was with someone who was like me, just like me. But feeling ashamed at the same time for being with someone who was just like me. Why did we have to know each-other under these circumstances. Growing up in towns where we were the only ones. In places where our parents wanted us to just fit in and be like all the other kids. Not just like them in that we played sports or went to summer camps or attended church school. But the same color of our skin, the same mannerisms, the same way of suburban thinking. If I had met you living in the city or even in a bigger town where everyone wasn’t so pale skinned maybe I wouldn’t have called you those names or pushed you into the snow. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared about people knowing I had kissed an Asian girl or even that I was in love with someone of my own race. Why did it have to be here, like this.


I’m sorry. 


How could a boy who from behind the same narrowed eyes say such dubious things. I don’t know. I hate myself for being ashamed of who I am, and I hate myself hating who you are. I wanted you to be white, I wanted to be white. Now what is left but a couple of kids who have grown apart, who by all accounts should have be closer. Back then we had it all going, everything except who we thought we had to be.


Like I said I don’t know why I was thinking of this or what brought back such memories. I suppose such atrocious things can not stay locked away forever. I truly am shameful and I wish I could go back and do it all over again. Maybe I would be happy now, maybe you would be happy too. 


I’m sorry.

I am sure no one asked her that day, she probably didn’t ask herself. That however is all I ever heard regarding my adoption. It was out of love I was given up, it was out of love that I was adopted into this family, it was out of love that I still exist today.


But why I ask myself. I have loved and I have been loved. I have bleed and I have cried over love. I elated and I hurt, all for love. Love is supposed to be such a grand thing. It is said to heal all wounds, but not this love. This love has cast open more pain than any sort of love is supposed to. It has lead me to believe that this is not love at all, that the actions carried out on that day had nothing to do with the notion of love. 


Where was the social worker, the nurse, the father, the lover, the sibling, the aunt, the grandmother, where was the person who asked her, do you love you son? Then why are you casting him off to a life of unknown? As his mother why will you not be the one to look over him, to protect him and guide him through a world full of what ifs? Do you love this boy? then why would you not endure the pain yourself in order to save him that extra bit of hardship that as an adult you know first hand this world is so good at dealing out. Do you love him? Then why…….why do this?


Maybe she asked herself these questions, maybe it hurt her to answer. It hurts me to ask myself. Did she love me? Then why? 


I used to believe in it, love that is, but now I am not so sure. I used to think that with love a person could do anything, could over come any hardship. But I just don’t know what to think anymore. I used to try and just listen to my heart, but its voice has become shrill and bitter. So I drown it out, lacking the necessary compassion to entertain its plea for sympathy. 


Because of love I cast aside family members and friends with a certain disdain. Because of love I hide deep within myself, scared to find out who I really am. Because of love I hold trust on a very short leash and dispense it sparingly. It is out of this act of love that I feel so alone. 


Now if by some slim chance you ever find this, no find me, I have but one question to ask you. Did you love him, then why?


I use the past tense because the man I have become today is nothing of the boy you produced all those years ago. No I changed the second I left your arms and care was relinquished over me. From that moment I was no longer a son for you to love unconditionally but an orphan to be prized by someone else. Yes a prize as it were, a prize going to the lucky couple from New York, yes the ones standing in the back. That is what I became the day you signed the papers, the day you signed my life away. 


Out of love was it. Out of love I got the college fun, the suburbs, the American values, the full belly and the nice clothes. Out of love I got racism, the cold stares, the butt of all jokes, the stereo type, the fear, the pain, and the longing. All of these things you gave to me out of love. Brilliant bit of business on your part, splendid job. 


We do a lot of things out of love, and as the salty little bits hit they keys, in my heart I am forgiving you out of love. As I readjust my contacts and blow my running nose I am realizing that no matter how much I hurt inside I will always reserve a bit of love for you. So when I ask you that question one day whether it be in this world or the next and regardless of the answer, I will be satisfied. Because past all the wreckage and the scaring, deep inside this heart of mine lies a little bit of love, saved especially for you.

I would be remiss to think that international adoption will ever go away, but this certainly is a step in the right direction.

Korean adoption to US in decline

My cousin is up visiting and it is really great to see her. I haven’t really seen her in something like 10 years at least. She was visiting about 3 year ago but at the time I was working 3 jobs and trying to keep a broken relationship form totally falling apart. So needless to say I was preoccupied and I only say her in passing last time she was here. But now I only have one job, no crazy girlfriend, and no crazy extenuating circumstances(those of you who know me know what I’m talking about).

So we have time now and it is good talk talk to her. Aside from the fact that she has a gorgeous and witty young daughter, 11 years old I think, to talk about, a lot has happened for the both of us in the long time that has passed. The last time we really talked I was probably 12 so I am sure the conversation was not all that great, well at least for her. But now as two full fledged adults we are able to converse and commiserate and fully understand the scope of the twists and turns our lives have taken.

I think that despite the difference in our ages and our upbringings we are very similar, I think we just see the world through similar eyes. I remember thinking this even as a young boy, that she just understood where I was coming from and I her.

Last night after my father, mother, uncle(her father and the one whom I really dislike), my cousin and her daughter came home from an excursion to our cottage, my cousin came right up to my room to have a talk. She wanted to vent after being ambushed in an hour long car ride by the three adults. I knew her pain and anguish and could do little more than laugh. That is why I don’t go anywhere with my parents anymore and if I do I drive separate because I hate being told the way I feel or what I know is wrong.

So we sat there until way too late talking about life and about perspective and most importantly about family. Our family to be exact. About the rifts, the rumors, the opinions, the dynamics. What struck me most was her views on our families openness. She talked in great length of her husbands family and how they all talk about everything, together, as a collective. If someone is struggling with life or having any sort of difficulty, they sit and talk and hash it out. If someone is not so apt to talk but clearly displaying symptoms of a troubled life, that person is approached and confronted in a caring way. Not our family, we’re rug sweepers and rumor mongers. If you have problems they are your problems, and damn to anyone who will help you with those problems. They are ignored and then talked about, behind your back. Compassion, what compassion. I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we don’t care, we do we really do. It is just that we would rather you figure it out on your own with no assistance, and if you ask for help all you’ll get in return is stories spread about the family like wildfire of how you are incompetent and not fit to live your life. Asking for help is like signing your life away as you will forever be branded the family fool and be in debt to those who lend the helping hand.

I am not quite sure why i am talking about this, it seems whiny and trivial. But I just felt the need to write something, anything as I have been so congested and backlogged with my thoughts lately. Anyway new topic. Again I am going through my pile of draft that has magically gotten larger and I found a topic i wanted to write about for sometime.

People who tell me matter of fact that I am not in fact Asian in any way shape or form but that I am as white as they come. Wow really, this is news to me, I guess that guy that looks at me in the mirror everyday didn’t get the memo. Honestly when people tell me this it really gets on my tits. In fact that is in my top 10 for things that really piss me off.

The thing is it’s always people whom are close to me and know me relatively well, but at the same time people who are probably unaware that I blog or that I harbor such intense feelings about my adoption, race, and my own self image. It is the people whom I share a relative level of trust that like to proclaim my whiteness. I like to call this act modern impreialisation. People claim my ethnicity and my identity in the name of white people everywhere. Plunk, and they stick this giant white flag out my ass. There you go here is your subscription of Home and Garden magazine, your key to your new Prius, and your  Best of Phil Collins CD. Oh wait wait, you almost forgot your sense of self entitlement. Right wouldn’t want to forget that.

I mean honestly I might have some white mannerisms. It can’t be helped, I did after all grow up around all white folk, I was raised by a white family who had no non white friends, but for fucks sake I ain’t white people. So stop proclaiming that I am white, I just ain’t havin’ it.

Phewwww, big breath there. Sorry I had to get that off my chest. I have heard that a lot over the years and quite a bit as of late. I think the more and more I come out of my shell and become more open about my desires and my feelings, the more people want to tell me that I am wrong and shouldn’t want the things I do. I don’t know maybe people just are afraid that I will become someone who is so unfamiliar to them. Maybe it is that the people I hang around are not as diverse and open as they think they are, and the fact that I may become to “ethnic” scares them. I mean if all these white folks were so open minded and were so pro diversity, wouldn’t they be cool with the fact that I am exploring a very integral part of who I am. A part of me that is so clearly not white. Eh who knows.

Well I am off to our nations capital. I really wanted to let some things out so that I am unburdened for this weekend that I am really dreading. A good weekend to all and thanks for listening.

(Note: this was not proff read or edited, so if it reads like total dross my bad)

This is a real good article that I found on the Korean Times website about the resiliency of the Korean people. I read this article and I am just so proud of the nation who genes comprise my body. Maybe this is why despite all the dross I have been through I am still here today. I guess it’s just in my blood.

I hate calling them nightmares, it just seems so childish, but that is exactly what they are. Maybe they are perverse dreams. Dreams that become twisted and sick and frighteningly out of control. Right now I take a back seat to the will of these dreams. Occurring much more often then I would like and robbing me of a sound nights sleep, these dreams have taken hold of my attention.

They all seem to center around my younger brother or at least he is always an important character in these dreams. Some nights he is brutally beating a loved one, others he is leading some Aryan movement similar to scenes from “American History X”.  Each time I am in some sound, familiar place. Places that should be safe and comfortable to me, but become places I desperately want to escape due to the sheer discomfort I feel in them. Each dream scares the shit out of me, and all end with me collapsed in a heap of sadness and anger on the ground weeping. And I am awaken suddenly.

Rocked to my core from these dreams that seem so real, I wake to the familiar sound of my fan buzzing and cars passing the house in the wee hours of the night. Always my heart is racing uncontrollably. I clutch my pillow tight and run my fingers through my now longish hair trying desperately to discern between to the real and the world of dreams. And as always my eyes are crusted over from the tears.

These tears that I always shed in my dreams are real. Real in their waning presence on my lashes, real in the salty residue felt on my high cheeks, real in the moisture felt on my pillow. I rise myself at these unreasonalby early hours and drag myself to the bathroom, where I stand in a awe at the presence standing in the little vanity missor reflecting back at me. This figure is blury from the sleep and from the crud caked over my eyes. As I wipe away the little tear skeletons I can see my still racing heart, beating from my chest as if it is trying to escape, trying to leave such a horrific captation.

But I am the one in capture. Left to the demented will of these dreadful dreams. Why do I keep having them? Why is he always in them? Why is he always acting so haneous?

They say dreams are memories and thoughts trying to escape the conceous, but their presence and frequency alone means that these visoins won’t be leaving me anytime soon. So I guess I should figure out what they mean. I think I know but I don’t want to admit it out loud. I am affraid of my brother.

I feels good to write that but at the same time I don’t want to have to admit it. I feel liberated in a sense but confined by the idea that he is fast becoming a person that when I move I will probably cut ties with. As I move forward and as I mature, this idea that even family is no longer off limits is something that I have been struggling with.

He is my little brother and I love him, I always will. But his racism, his bigotry, his anger are things that terrify me and are things that I know not how to fix in him. Ultimately he will have to find solutions to his problems on his own, I just hope he knows I will always be there for him. And hopefully one day these dreams will stop and return to what they should be, dreams.

I have lost a child

I lost a love

I’ve carried a burden

I saw the invincible defeated

I felt empty and worn

I’ve kept a secret

And I’ve said too much

Relationships have become tattered and worn

Walls were torn down and reconstructed

I have cried just once

Wept many times more

I’ve felt numb

And I boiled with contempt

I made many mistakes

I have rehashed good and bad

Visited new places

Tried to forget

Given more than I could afford

Ran on empty

I have bent

I have broke

I have conceded

I prayed

I wished

All I want to know is……so what now?

I have been writing and delting, writing and deleting. Over and over and I can’t seem to publish anything that reflects what’s going on over here in lil KAD Prince world. It is pretty frustrating and given the amount of other “stuff” goin on in my world, you would think I would be churning out like 10 posts a day. But alas I am just not satisfied with what I’m writing and really can’t be bothered.

So I say unto you readers/followers of The Little KAD prince……….Sup?

Whether you are a lurking reader, long time commenter, passerby ummmm…er, or whoever. Leave me a bit about what’s up in your world. What are you doing? How are you feeling? What new and exciting things are happening or coming into your life?

Part of this blog is about developing new relationships. Already I have made some pretty stellar friends through this blog and like cake, there is always room for more. Mmmmmmm cake, delicious cake. Too bad baking is for suckers and I am no sucker. No offense to any baking readers out there, but I am more in the mold of a chef and chefs don’t bake.

So holla at cha boy and leave me some tasty tid bits.

’til tomorrow hopefully

Gripped with anxiety I wander through this life. Day to day avoiding those things which leave me cold and numb with the fear of what if. No amount of Xanax could cure what ails me for I think it is all in my head, my own doing. Always on the door step staring at the knob, knowing what awaits if I walk through the door, I stand frozen and hunched, until no longer can I bear the pressure and the voices, I turn away from what could be. So yet another promise left unfulfilled, and I can’t taste it.

Voices of expectation and potential cluster and group inside, and that is all I can hear, that is the source of this anxiety. I was supposed to be this or I was expected to become that. So I shrink. Withering on this vine refusing to expose my true nature, whilst the fruits around me who suckled from the same source grow and flourish and become all the things I dreamed to be. The accomplishments and the grand life I was told I would lead slowly escape me and that nectar that is success abandons me.

This is not perfect, I am not perfect. But I am not like all the rest. Like some ape faced piglet I am made to be different, defected from the norm. It was reasoned that I would be the same, that this melting pot would absorb me just like all the rest, that my differences were not unique. But so strange this sequence, so alien is this strain, that my form is not recognized. I feel omitted from the heard and the jackals that are of my own creation will soon devour me.

I was to succeed under this sun, and so by all levels of reasoning I should rise up and take my mantle. But I am my own variable, my personal X-factor. I chose not to climb the stairs that were placed before me, instead opting for a blind stroll down a path of unknown, but maybe that should have been taken into account. Maybe someone should have reasoned what it is like to live life carrying this heavy pack, alone in an environment where many hours are spent with nothing but the weight and the expectation. Yet even knowing this all I find it hard to place blame, because a man, a reasonable adult, does not look back in anger, he takes what he has and makes it work.

Then maybe I am not a man, maybe theres is no shred of reason in me. Because surely this isn’t working and I don’t know how to get a move on. Every moment not spent at the pinnacle of greatness is a moment I regret. Another point in time that I look back and die just a little bit more knowing I can’t recoup those moments.

I crucify myself for not being the best, for not achieving at the very least what has been laid out for me. And for a while I was able to let go of the expectation and just exist. Not caring one way or the other, not worrying about this or that or him or her. I am probably just not good enough. The reason I wanted to be the best was to show you. I wanted to go back one day and be the little boy I should have been. I wanted to kneel down before you, hands cupped, holding up what I had done. I wanted to show you all that I have conquered and overcome. I wanted you to be that proud mother who looked in awe at what her little boy had achieved and for you to be pleased. But to do this I had to be the best. I swore as a child that I would not go back, I would not find you until I was the epitome of success. I wanted you to be shamed and sorrowed and full of regret at what you had given up. I wanted you to see what you gave up on.  But I’ve changed.

The child in me still wants to shame you, still wants to turn my back, but that child is slowly dieing. A new boy is emerging from the shadows and he is more kind, more simplistic. This little boy has nothing to hold up to you. He has very little to show in hopes that you will be awed. This new little boy just wants you to hold him close, to return him to the loving embrace that he has never known, to the place his heart has yearned for all along. He wants the weight of expectation and the burden of loss to be lifted. But most of all he just wants you to know he exists.

I pray that somewhere in your mind and most importantly in your heart you think of me. I like to think that I derived this neurotic tendency from you and that because of this you long me for me in the same way I long for you. I don’t hate you. I never have. I hope you know this to be true. I know I am spiteful and I rue many things about my life, but that is only out of frustration, not malice towards you or your decision.

Redefining success is hard. Is a life measured by the names on diplomas or balances on bank statements? Cars, houses, families, boats, countries stamped on passports. Are achievements measured by titles on business cards or awards and merits received? For me success would be finding you, but as always I stand in my own way. Afraid of what I might achieve or how high I might climb, I stop myself dead in my tracks.

I just wish I could taste it.