I'm four years old.

It's January 9, 1970. My adoptive parents are driving from their home in Deer Park, Long Island, NY to John F. Kennedy International Airport to pick up their adopted Korean son, In-Chun Baek. In the car, they talk about the future of their new son. They wonder if In-Chun will like his new family and if he will get along with their biological three-year-old son, Andy, who waits at home with his grandmother because he is too young to make it the airport. Besides, they think another child in the car would be too overwhelming for the little Korean boy. "What will we do if he doesn't like it here?" my mother asks my father. "Let the Lord handle it," he replies.

On the plane, caretaker from Holt International Childrens' Services are looking after the orphaned Korean Children and babies. It is a tiring trip-fifteen hours of flying. Most are calmed with games and song, while others cry and complain of earaches and stomach problems. Throughout the plane ride I sit on Dr. Kim's lap, playing with a red balloon given to me before I boarded the plane. Dr. Kim reassures me that my new parents are kind and loving, and that I will have a happy life with my new family. Although I am only four, I understand that my new parents are waiting for my arrival, and I am both excited and scared to meet them.

When my parents get to the airport they park the car and go inside. Moments later, a light drizzle of rain bounces gently off cars and taxicabs, buses and trucks. The passenger pickup terminal is overflowing with other young couples holding stuffed animals, balloons, and cards with Korean children's names on them; some are spelled phonetically, some are written in crude Korean characters. My parents search the crowd of arriving passengers for a little Korean boy that matches the picture they hold in their hands, the same picture that it placed around their home: on the night stand in their bedroom, on the coffee table in the living room, on the kitchen table, and on top of the dresser drawer in their other son's bedroom.

The crowd begins to thin out as couples unite with their new Korean sons and daughters, and take them home to a new life of color televisions and video games, hot dogs and hamburgers, Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, holidays and birthdays, blue jeans and white T-shirts.

A Korean woman, tall and thin, greets my parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Teska?" she asks. "I'm Doctor Kim." In her arms is a small Korean boy. "And this little boy is your son, Thomas." When my mother sees me, her face lights up. I look just like a little boy in the picture: round pudgy face, pronounced forehead, two irresistible dimples. What the picture didn't know is a child with bandages wrapped around his legs and feet. Mrs. Kim promptly explains that, about a week ago, I had spilled a hot bowl of soup on myself. They are minor burns and will heal soon she says.

My mother quickly scoops me into her arms, and asks Dr. Kim, "Is there anything we need to sign before we take our son home?" "Just a couple of release forms; they're in my bag," she replies. My mother looks at me and says with a smile, "Tommy, we're going home."

In the car, my mother, holding me in her arms, softly repeats my new name over and over, her voice slightly rising above the pitter-patter of the rain and the swishing sound of the windshield wipers. A new language is forming in my head. English vowels and consonants break through a thick mesh of Korean vocabulary. I will forget how to speak Korean. I will forget what Korean people look like. I will forget about Korea. Months pass and I am introduced to celebrations like St. Patrick's Day, Easter, the Fourth of July and Halloween. Christmas is my favorite holiday of all because Santa Cause comes to bring all good little boys and girls gifts and sweets. My brother and I like watching TV, especially comedies with Laurel & Hardy and Abbott and Costello. I can't speak English to well, but I can laugh in English!

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