A name tag with the name Minho written on it, and a photograph. That was all that I had. The only items that connected me to a life that was cut and reconnected.

Minho, a name that I can’t recognise well. It’s written in a foreign language but my parents told me that was my name. It confused me when I was a child. My name is Alexander, not Minho.  That was what I once knew.

I started noticing small things. Like how I looked so different from my parents or how my hair colour was black compared to their chestnut or dirty blonde hair, or how my eyes were a deep dark brown and theirs were a hazel colour. It confused my five year old mind immensely.

I felt lost, like an anomaly to this trend. Even my classmates looked like my parents. During my childhood years, I have questioned myself, was I a mistake, a genetic mutation, a different breed? It didn’t help that other children would look at me differently. Their staring curious ice blue eyes, looking as if I was some monstrosity.

It was only when I finally came to high school. I started understanding that I was in fact not a mistake, or a genetic mutation, nor am I a different breed. My anatomy was human; it was only my race that was different.

I started looking for answers. I questioned my parents, and they told me everything. Every single piece of information that they told me boggled my mind. Somehow, the country that I called my sweet home didn’t seem real, I was confused. I questioned myself if everything was just a lie, like this was The Truman Show.

My rebellious teenage mind couldn’t handle everything. I started doing whatever I can to change myself, to be able to fit in. Yet, they called me a phony. How can I be, when I all I knew was their culture? I grew up without any real friends since then. My parents were worried about me, but I told them not to worry.

Finally, I was in college. I built up the courage to finally visit where I really came from, with the help of an organisation. I wanted to ask so many questions, but all that I felt was anxiety and the feeling of hopelessness.

I met up with her and him, and them. She hugged me while crying; speaking in a language I couldn’t understand. I was confused; a woman I barely knew was hugging me so tightly, like she knew me for more than a decade. He on the other hand, looked at me with happiness, although tears were leaking out of his eyes. They just stood there, smiling, although not as attached. They looked like me.

When it was finally time to depart, I couldn’t help but feel regret. I couldn’t question them. I was too overwhelmed by the fact that they were there.

I finally got back home. My mom, she ran to me as if she nearly lost me.  My father also hugged me, he was crying as well.

I can’t say that I didn’t constantly go back to those memories and remember this experience, I did regret a few things, but I can say that my life in this country is all that I know and I am proud of myself.

AN: I usually base my stories from how I feel, but this one is based off a documentary that I saw about adoption and growing up in a country like the states or wherever.