By L. Kim

My children look like me.

To most, this is a benign statement; a given; an obvious expectation if they are yours biologically. They're likely to inherit at least 50% of your physical attributes and hopefully only the best of your personality characteristics—and any undesirable personality traits they inherit can be blamed on your partner's side, right?

But to me, the fact that my children look like me has a greater personal significance. As an adopted Asian American, I have never before been able to recognize shared physical features in anyone in my family. I was raised in Minnesota by white parents—really exceptional ones that I am blessed and thankful to have. But I have never even seen pictures of my biological parents. And while my parents never left me wanting for love or care, I grew up clearly lacking any physical resemblance to anyone in my family. Strangers would doubt our relationship or question our family status. People would openly wonder about us, like if we were even related, and even as a young child that led me to feel I didn't belong somehow; that my family and I were different from each other in an overt and obvious way.

I felt envious any time I heard someone say they inherited their father's chin, their mother's eyes, their grandfather's height. These small, seemingly insignificant physical similarities were living proof of a family's connection, not only through genetics but how I thought they were viewed and simply accepted by others as part of the same.

My husband is Caucasian, of mostly Irish descent. During our first pregnancy we often wondered who our son would look like before he was born. Unfortunately, the fuzzy black-and-white images of an alien that you receive during your ultrasounds give you no indication one way or the other of who he is going to look like when he emerges. But once he was born, from the moment he was placed on my chest I could see his resemblance to me. In addition to being red-faced and screaming as I had been moments before, he also had my features: black hair, small nose, my eyes. Here he was: my tiny, precious gift from God. And he looks like me. We are undeniably part of the same “club,” and this recognition filled my heart with an overwhelming joy. The nurse even declared upon seeing him, "Well, I guess he looks like mom!"

Our second child, another boy, looks even more like me than our oldest does. Even his facial expressions are similar to mine. I often feel badly for my husband, who certainly passed along a few but significantly less noticeable physical attributes to our children. I guess my genes have the dominant stuff. But bless him, he has no less love or pride for them.

It gives me a joy I cannot fully express, sharing these similarities with my two little boys. It is the first time I've been able to have this specific connection with anyone in my life, and it’s with the most important people in the world. I recognize myself in someone else and know that we are of the same substance, irrevocably connected. It’s a bond and a kinship unlike any I’ve known before.

And while it gives me pride and joy, it is hard for me to acknowledge that it also gives me fear. I have fear for them because I know what they may experience in this world because they look Asian. I have walked that road and experienced others’ racism, but it wasn't until I became a mother that I really felt this kind of fear—knowing those same experiences could happen to my children. I hesitate whenever I see a stranger’s gaze lingering on us, wondering what it is they see and what they are thinking; if thoughts of discrimination, dislike, or even hatred is crossing their mind, or if they are simply looking at us for no reason at all.

At its "best," racial discrimination has looked like people making "model minority" assumptions, saying “you must be skilled at math” for example. (For the record, math has always been my worst subject and I am eternally grateful for the calculator on my phone.) At its worst, racism can mean bullying, violence, and threats to your safety. I have been on the receiving end of discrimination, objectification, being called racist expletives by strangers on the street, having fistfuls of change or garbage thrown at me in passing. Of course these events caused me pain, anger, and fear; but it is nothing like the fear I have now knowing that this could one day happen to my children, too.

My heart aches to think that someone could look at my precious boys and judge them only by what they see and possibly think less of them for it. I would give anything for them to not have to go through that pain. I wish I could shield them from it forever, though I know I can't. 

My fear has only been increased this year as the world has been brought to a halt by a historic pandemic, and stories of discrimination and violence against Asian Americans peppers my newsfeed. 

This racist violence and fear is nothing new, just different in a year already fraught with much suffering and turmoil.

My children are young now. My oldest is not yet five years old. I dread and await the future day when they come home from school feeling confused and upset by a discriminatory comment from another student, such as I heard myself many times in my youth. I hope and pray that is the worst they experience, though I know in truth that is unlikely. I wonder if there will be a day when they wish they do not look like me.

I know I am not alone in my fear; it is not unique to Asian Americans. BIPOC mothers across America have faced the same and worse fears for their children for years, as has been highlighted this year by so many tragic events. 

How do we, as mothers, prepare our children for such an eventuality? How do we prepare ourselves for the injustices they will experience? How do we inspire them to still trust, to hope, and to seek the best in others when we know they will at times see the opposite? How do we teach them to help build a better world?

In this way, I am like every other mother: we know our children will come to see the uglier side of our world, and so we prepare them for it as best we can. We try to teach them to be brave, strong, and kind so they can move forward when they are confronted by the bad. We remind ourselves every day to show them how by being brave, strong, and kind ourselves, even when it's hard. It's frightening and it is heartbreaking, but we protect and strengthen and love as fiercely as we can to make sure our children know they are secure and protected.

In this, mothers, we are of the same.

My children look like me. But in becoming a mother, I have realized that I also look like countless mothers everywhere: forever loving, protecting, and praying for our children.

So to the mothers everywhere who have had fear in your hearts but do not let it darken your world, we will never stop loving, we will never stop trying. I am thankful beyond measure to share this bond of motherhood with you. It gives me strength and hope for the future.

Guest essay written by L. Kim. She is a married mother of two little boys, living in northeast Wisconsin. Formerly working full-time in health care business, the calls of stay-at-home motherhood became too great and she has been happily chasing her two busy boys around since 2019. When not playing trucks or dinosaurs, she enjoys playing instruments and baking.

Photo by Ashlee Gadd.