Inter-Review

Susan Ito (SI): Amy, I just loved your book on so many levels. I was particularly blown away by the language. It's exquisite. So many sentences were swoon-worthy. And I was really taken by the structure, by your use of the braided narrative. (I wish I had had your book last semester when I was teaching this to my nonfiction workshop!) I wonder if this structure is something that organically arose as you wrote or if it was very deliberate. I also mused about the braided structure being related to being an adoptee: how we never really have the whole picture, but how we need to piece together disparate stories in order to form something larger. When I first began writing my memoir, it was in more of a mosaic shape, and I called it “Filling in the Blanks.” I think that perhaps these formats are somehow a reflection of our experience as adoptees. What do you think?Amy Lee Scott (ALS): Thanks, Susan. I love your observation that the braided narrative is linked to my experience as an adoptee, and that a mosaic came to mind as you wrote your book. That makes so much sense. For me, the braided format seemed like the natural choice for essays that cover a wide timeline with references to historic events and my personal narrative. Because I've spent most of my life trying to make sense of my fragmented origins, I think my processing felt compelled toward juggling multiple stories, perspectives, and experiences. I also love the satisfaction that comes from bringing so many disparate strands together in a cohesive essay. It feels like a magic trick!I inhaled your incredible book, I Would Meet You Anywhere, in a single sitting—then reread it at a more leisurely pace to revel in your lovely words. I love that you investigate the moral and emotional tug of war of needing to tell your story despite the fact that it “holds a secret at its core.” That wrestling is so real, especially for those of us writing personal narratives that are linked so intrinsically to other people's personal stories. How did you learn to reconcile this internal fight as you wrote your book? Now that you have written this book, and experienced any fallout that came because of it, how has it changed how you approach this struggle in your current writing?SI: Thank you so much for your kind words, Amy. And I do think that the braided format is such a perfect form for an adoptee story. Regarding that internal wrestling, it really has ebbed and flowed since publication. I've had many, many moments of regret, remorse, worry over the fallout, especially as it has impacted some relationships. That's real. But now it's been over a year. Things have calmed down. I wrote the book, I published it, and despite my worst fears, the world did not end. I really did worry that everything would come crashing down, and it did not. In terms of my current writing, I'm working on a historical novel now that is not remotely autobiographical, and this is hugely liberating. People have asked me if I'm going to write a sequel or another memoir, and the answer is no. I'm so glad that I got this story out, but I'm done. I might end up writing personal essays from time to time, but I am glad to focus on fiction for the immediate future.Can you tell me a little bit about the origin of your book? How long have you been writing? And when did you know you wanted to tell this story publicly?ALS: I have been writing this book off and on for the last two decades, so it has been a long time coming. The impetus to even start writing at all came in a London bookshop in my early twenties. I remember sitting curled in an oversized chair one rainy afternoon reading Nicole Kraus's The History of Love. In it, the narrator described so exactly how I felt about loss but could never articulate. The book talked about lost loves but it rang so true as I considered the many maternal losses I had experienced, particularly when I read this: “If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it.” It was that idea of an unspoken void, an empty space, and the compensatory notion that the hole only existed because there was something there before—that burned bright in my mind.Because I was adopted as an infant from South Korea into a white-bread Midwestern family, my adoption was never a secret. However, I never really thought about who my Korean mother might be until that moment. Suddenly, the monumental losses of both my biological mother of origin and my adopted mother, who died when I was a child, came into high relief. Without both of them, that empty space that I tried so desperately to ignore or to fill with fleeting things would never exist; but likewise, the level of empathy such losses allowed me to cultivate would not exist either. In many ways, my grief and loss have helped me to create my current-day value system and personality.Kraus later writes, “She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence.” I don't know who I would be if I hadn't grown up mourning the loss of two mothers; so much growth came from all that. I didn't begin writing to share my story publicly, but as I continued to write, that desire to find connection and community grew as well.You talk so much about loss in your beautiful book. I was particularly struck when you wrote about finding a folder in your parents’ filing cabinet. The folder contained a tiny bit of information outlining your life before you came to live with your adopted family. The experience unspools a whole line of questioning, and you write, “My chest ached with the emptiness of not knowing.” This really gets to the heart of the adoptee wound: how many questions and turmoil we experience because we simply do not know. There is no language that adequately sums up the internal canyon of grief this void creates. How has writing this book helped you to negotiate the absences in your life and story, and to create a new language to discuss grief and loss?SI: Oh, gosh, I love that: the “internal canyon of grief.” Yes! I think part of the experience of taking so long (30 years!) to write the book was that it carried me through decades of different kinds of loss. Loss of knowledge, loss of agency over my own narrative and history, loss of people (a child and eventually, parents). It was a lot. One of the ways that I cope with loss is to write about it—often immediately. I am a big journal keeper, and when I experience something emotionally intense, that is how I deal with it. Sometimes just scribbling a few lines, but it often ends up being part of something larger.I was so moved by the way you wrote about pregnancy loss. I also experienced this and I wonder if it is an experience that hits differently for adopted people. For many of us, these are some of our first, or only, genetic relatives. It's big.ALS: I think you're right about this. For me, I never really wanted children because I didn't want them to potentially experience the loss of their mother like I did. That pain seemed insurmountable to bear. But when I finally decided that I would like to try to have a child, having a miscarriage felt like such a betrayal. It was yet another loss in a litany of losses, and this one also carried with it that ache of not knowing that you wrote about. For any of us who experience pregnancy loss, it is more than just the physical weight of recovery; it's also the burden of the infinite stories of what might have been that we lose alongside the idea of that child.I cried when I read about your experience with losing baby Samuel, which you sum up with devastating clarity: “Evacuees were what Japanese Americans like my birth mother were called when they were ripped from their homes, tagged like animals, flung into the desert. Evacuated, exiled, thrown away.” I think this is what I unconsciously felt throughout much of my life: like an exile with no true home.However, as I matured, I became more able to see that my exile adoptee vantage point gave me a superpower that has saved me time and again—the ability to build my own community wherever I am. From talking with my adoptee friends, I have learned that many of us grow up in families where we feel like an outsider, in communities where we are the odd ones out. I think what helped me to come to terms with those feelings of rejection was when I started building my dream team of friends who become family.Your book talks about your friend Gina, who truly encapsulates what it means to be an authentic friend. I found her to be such a good foil to Yumi, your biological mother, whom you call an “almost friend.” With Yumi, the relationship was unbalanced, with her holding all the power. How has your experience with your true community helped you to become more authentically yourself, especially as a writer writing a book about secrets?SI: I think that building community has been both my superpower and my salvation. I love the way you put that: the dream team of friends. For me, finding both other adoptees and other writers has been my dream team. I find that writers are people who look at life honestly and who aren't afraid to share things that others find “too personal.” I appreciate those who can share their inner selves. It's an honor and a privilege to be able to speak honestly and to hear (or read) others doing the same. It's not something I take for granted.ALS: What struck me most about your book was how deftly and precisely you brought real people to life as characters. Yumi especially rang true as you wrote her as a dynamic, charismatic, sometimes loving and sometimes downright unlikeable person. You were able to give such depth to her. How did you do this, and how do you work through crafting people you know in real life on the page?SI: In my writing (and probably in my life as well), I am obsessed by detail. I notice the smallest things. And I think that is how I am able to bring characters and situations to life. It isn't really a conscious craft choice—it's just how I tend to write. Sometimes I can get bogged down in description and end up having to pare it back. I didn't mention that I had to cut almost fifty thousand words from my final manuscript!ALS: I love to read writing by and for mothers. Because I grew up without mothers, I often feel like an imposter when mothering my own children. Through Yumi, your book talks a lot about the performative aspect of motherhood, which I experience on a daily basis, both as a mother and as a writer. Imposter syndrome is real. I wonder if you have felt this in writing as well, and how you overcome it.SI: Ha. Imposter syndrome is real. During the decades when I wrote this book, I had to constantly battle the idea that my story was not worth telling. That it was “pathetic.” And self indulgent. That I was so needy. That nobody would want to read it. I could go on and on. If I could only have shown my then-self the incredible letters and responses I've gotten from people, telling me what an impact my book has made on them. It's truly been so gratifying, and often shocking.And as far as parenting goes, I'm sure you have noticed that you have to constantly learn, evolve, and reinvent yourself because our children are constantly growing and changing, and we have to change along with them. Parenting a baby is different from an adolescent, which is different from an adult. It never ends, and it's always evolving.ALS: Your book closes with a series of lovely and satisfying moments. Perhaps the most touching to me was when you introduced your granddaughter to your mother: “‘Look at the baby,’ I said. She looked, and her sadness evaporated. We have these losses. Things change, and people vanish from our lives. What can we do, except focus on the things that bring us joy?” Considering the current chaotic and terrifying state of the world, this hit me hard. For me, seeking this kind of authentic joy—in spite of the pain, grief, and heartache that surrounds me—is my crucial role as a writer. When I write, I do so alone. However, when an essay or book is published, I am inviting others to experience the world alongside me, which is infinitely rewarding. Thank you for letting me connect with you through words. Writing is healing, but so is reading, and so is the community it creates for so many.SI: Amy, yes, I think that's all we can do, especially in these incredibly trying times. Focus on the things that bring us joy. I'll say that your book brought me joy, and such a sense of connection and understanding. I'm thrilled that it is out in the world for others to experience, and I can't wait to see the community that will emerge for you. I know that so many will find inspiration and understanding from it: writers, adopted people and those who want to know about this experience, parents, and really, any humans with a beating heart. Congratulations, Amy—I am so glad to welcome this book to the world.