My Secret Self - Snap Classic
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Okay, so Sunday morning, I'm minding my own business, walking down the street, passed by a group of fellas. One of them's like, good job. Starts doing him a little clap. Okay. But another one says, one step at a time. That's the only way to be. Huh? Never give up. Today's the first day of the rest of your life.

Now, I don't know what it is about my appearance. The sweats, the huffing and puffing. Okay, okay, okay, okay. Maybe I put on a few pandemic pounds. Don't hate. For some reason, they see me as someone new to exercise. Like I'm beginning a brand new life. Turn over a new leaf or something. And instead of laughing and calling me names...

They're gonna cheer me on my new path. Fruits and vegetables, that's the only way. Drink you some water. Because whatever it is they're seeing, it can't be possibly further away from my own truth. Because not only do I look good to me, I'm not exercising. In fact, I'm headed toward the donut shop. You see, no one knows our truth. No one understands our inner lives. So today on Snap Judgment, we proudly present...

My secret self. I'm going to pull back the curtain just a little bit. My name is Glenn Washington, and I refuse to be defined by random people in the park when you're listening to Snap Judge Music. ♪♪♪

Now, the world sees you one way, you see yourself another. We begin our search for the truest self in 2010 when Andy Mara has just been offered the chance of a lifetime. She's going to Korea. Andy, take it away.

I was working at a progressive Korean community organization here in New York. And one of our programs offered trips

back to Korea and I jumped on the opportunity to go. Before leaving, I wanted to learn a little Korean. The alphabet, numbers, and political terms. But secretly, I wanted to learn Korean

to be able to not just introduce myself or have the basics in place, but so that I could be able to say hello to my mother or father if I had the rare chance of finding them. I grew up reading through my adoption files. All throughout my childhood, I had access to these documents. I often remember

waking up in the middle of the night and thinking that halfway around the world, somewhere in Korea, my family was going about their day. To be clear, I didn't really have a plan to find my family, but I often wondered if there was some sort of unseen connection or bond that still tied us together.

I was very eager to get off the plane. I was very jet-lagged. My legs were killing me. And I remember going through customs and collecting my suitcase and being immediately struck by the sounds in the airport. Everyone was going about their business, heading to their gates, heading to baggage claim, and all of it was in Korean. I also realized that

Mostly, everyone looked like me. It was a jarring experience, even for someone like myself who lives in New York City and there is a prominent and visible Korean-American community. I was just struck that I blended in and that I wasn't the other. After my trip, my formal work trip had ended, I had scheduled an appointment in advance to...

visit the agency. I knew that I needed my parents' birthdates in order for me to search for them. From what I learned from my friends, it could potentially be an uphill battle to even look at your file. I asked a Korean person who lived in Seoul to serve as my interpreter during

the visit. I wanted to know everything that was written in my file. Walking into their offices, I saw these women come in and out of the building with babies. And my heart stopped. I remember just my emotions being a big ball, a big tight ball in my chest. I was led into this small white room with no windows.

and bright fluorescent lights, and a metal table with chairs on each side for folks to sit in, and a box of tissues on the side of the table. When my file was shared with me, there was some information that was blanked over by post-it notes because it contained sensitive information about my parents, so their social security numbers, for instance.

I learned that I had an older sister that I never knew of. I grew up for some reason believing that I was the only child or that I may have been the oldest child, which led to me being put up for adoption. And I just, I never fathomed having another sibling alive. My head was just spinning. Through my interpreter, I asked for my parents' birthdates.

And the social worker asked me why. And I said, fortune telling or divination. And in order for you to receive your fortune, you need birthdates. You need your own birthdates, but you also need your parents' birthdates as well too. The woman for a minute studied me and she said, okay, makes sense. Let me just run this by my superiors.

The woman left the office and that's when I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures of my file. And I didn't understand what I was taking pictures of, but I knew that this was information that might help me in my search for my family. And so I left that adoption agency with my parents' birth dates, photos of information about my parents,

I was scared. It makes you question what's real. I was the closest I had ever been to being able to find my family and to be in such a position after years of wondering, questions and doubts and fears. It wasn't calculated, but after the trip to the adoption agency,

I asked my friends if they would take a subway trip to part of Seoul where my family had lived at some point so that I could visit a police station in that area and initiate a search. And they said yes. We made a pit stop to our hotel and I proceeded to change. Put away my skirt, put away my earrings and my necklaces.

not wear makeup, and pull back my hair into a ponytail. And in that moment, I remember feeling an immediate sense of shame for hiding a big part of who I am. But as someone with an intersectional life, I wanted the opportunity, I desperately wanted the opportunity to be able to say hello to my family before

potentially being turned away because of my gender identity. One of the first thoughts I had in coming out as trans was how it might impact my ability to search for my family. I was aware of the climate in Korea. Many folks think of trans people as being, as our identity as being a disability.

or in some instances, being a sin. I delayed my medical transition. That meant a delay in being able to take hormones as well as transition-related surgery. I'm not sure if it was the right or wrong decision or choice, but it was one that I thought was important for my family. I left our hotel looking very different.

than I normally presented. We headed to the police station. We arrived and I remember sitting in this booth with a police officer on the other side of me. And with my friends interpreting, I asked to initiate a search. And they said, "Here's a piece of paper, a form to complete. The search is going to take a month."

Time was not on my side. I remember blurting out, "Is there any chance the search could be expedited? I leave for the States tomorrow." And the police officer said, "No, this is the process. Here's the form. Give us your phone number and we'll call you. Have a nice day." Before the police officer got up to leave from her side of the booth, I said, "No. I'm a Korean adoptee.

I've waited 25 years to look for my family. I know this is an inconvenience, but I need your help. I need your help now. Something just changed. All of the officers, including the woman who was helping me, looked at me very differently. And they ran a search in their national database. In that booth, I learned that my father had passed away in 1994.

I was in fourth or third grade when my father had died. And I had lived all of those years thinking that he was alive, that I would have the chance to meet him, and he was gone. And so I had to grieve for my father that I had never met or never knew and never would know at this police station in a matter of minutes. The police officer came back to the booth and said,

There are two women with the name that you gave me and with the same birth date. Two women in the entire country. One of them lives in the southernmost tip of the country. The other woman lives less than an hour away. And I just immediately knew in my heart that was my mother. Don't go anywhere, snappers. When we return, Amy finds out whether her intuition is right. Stay tuned.

Welcome back to Snap Judgment, the My Secret Self episode. When last we left, Andy, she just convinced the Korean police to run a national search for the mother she never knew. And that search has just revealed two potential matches. Snap Judgment. And less than an hour later, the police officer approached us in the waiting area and said, we found your mother and she will be on her way to the police station in an hour.

Relief, fear, anxiety, excitement. I was relieved that I was able to find my family. I was fearful of somehow messing up my first meeting with my mother. The police officers led us up to their cafeteria where we had dinner. And shortly thereafter, we went to grab a few bags of snacks and drinks just in case something

My mom wanted to sit down and talk. We didn't know what to expect. My friend, who had a Korean cell phone with her, got the call from my mother that they had arrived. We were led down to the front entrance of the police station that overlooked the parking lot. Just pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Nervous, trying to remember the broken Korean that I had learned.

trying to look presentable, even though I felt very naked and not me. In the moment, the car drove into the parking lot, and I saw two people from a distance get out of the car and approach the police station. I saw an older woman wearing a very nice-looking black dress and heels, and a younger woman. The two of them approached the

the front entrance of the police station. I remember my mom walking up the stairs to the landing, and she looked so nervous. And my friends just weren't saying a word. They were frozen in silence. And all I remember doing was robotically bowing as my introduction and saying to my mother,

Hello. My name is Andy. I am so sorry. I can't speak Korean. And I didn't look up. I was stuck midway in the bow. These just hot tears flood my face and drop down to the ground. My mom grabbed my hand and I looked up and she just...

let out this profound wail, like this visceral, guttural wail. She hugged me. She embraced me and wouldn't let me go. And I later learned what she said. My baby has come home. We proceeded to go back to my hotel room. My friends stalled.

for time with my mom and my older sister in the hotel lobby, just so that I could go up to my room, clean it, and make sure that there were no, there was no evidence of me being a woman for them to see when we brought them up to my room. We were sitting in this living room-like area, eating oranges and talking.

My friends were interpreting and I remember thrusting the document from the adoption agency and saying, "Look, I know about our family." Both of them looked at the document. My mother's face just darkened and she said, "None of this is true. I did not relinquish you. This was a decision by your father."

And I was not consulted. I didn't sign any paperwork to send you away. You were always wanted. Felt like my heart had just cracked open and that I could finally breathe. I was never forgotten after all those years. And so I called the travel agency that I had booked my trip with and I was able to extend my trip for two more weeks and said, you need to come and stay with us. She lived in a modest house

two-bedroom home, and it was a basement apartment. She presented me with breakfast. A table full of banchan, bulgogi, japchae, and she also brought out this bowl of miyeokguk, seaweed soup.

Miyeokguk is often served to women who have just given birth because it contains a lot of nutrients and minerals, but it's also a dish that's served every birthday as a reminder of the significance behind it between a mother and a child. She very timidly offered this to me. You know, I know that we've never been able to celebrate your birthday,

But I wanted to make it for you, just given how important this moment is. I remember the smell of a little bit of soybean paste, a little bit of the seaweed, so the salty tang of the ocean, and thinking, "Wow, I'm gonna eat my first meal that my mom has ever cooked for me." And found myself crying and also stuffing my face full of food.

In the two weeks that I was with my mom, she would, on cue, make me breakfast. This big breakfast every morning, sitting at the table for me. And when we would travel, she would hold my hand. There were a couple of instances where I tried to pay for meals when we would eat out. My mom would tackle me with the strength of a football player and make sure that she always paid.

I still had my hair pulled back. I still was wearing jeans and short-sleeved T-shirts. My luggage was still back at my hotel that had all of my clothes and accessories and makeup. And it was almost as if my transness, my true self, was left back at the hotel in Seoul. There were a couple of instances where I thought I would come out

but I always batted it away. My mom in Korea is also very active in her church, and so I was still fearful of the prospect of coming out. I didn't want to ruin this magical moment. My mother came over to my sister's apartment where I was spending the day, and she joined me, my older sister, as well as a friend

who was volunteering to interpret that day. She sat me down and she said, "I have a question for you and I'm not sure how to ask it, but I want to ask you." And I said, "Sure, you know, I'm here. Let's get to know each other." And she said, "Is there something that you're not telling me?" And I said, "We've only

reunited for two weeks, and I'm sure there's plenty of details about my life and your life that will come out as time progresses." She said, "No, no, no, no. It seems that you are concealing something about yourself from me. What is it?" And I looked over at my friend, and I said, "I just-- there's no way that my mom is talking about the thing we both know to be true about me,

but she doesn't know, or does she? My mom was watching us have this conversation in English, and she finally said, "Look, maybe I can give you a clue." She says, "Please don't get offended, but I think it has something to do with how you look. You are very pretty." I started to sweat. Somehow my mom had figured something out, and I had no idea what gave me away.

"You know, there are a lot of things about me that you don't know. Would you still love me anyway?" She said, "What do you mean?" And I said, "Well, let's say for instance, like you found out that I murdered someone. Would you still love me?" And perhaps that wasn't the best example to give, but I was completely caught off guard.

And I had to find something that would let me gauge my mother's potential reaction. I'm just saying as an example, would you still love me? Would you still love me regardless? And my mother said to me, of course. I looked at my friend and I said, I have no choice. And she asked me, okay, how do you want me to translate this? And I said, no. I looked to my mother and

And I said, "Mom, I'm not a boy. I'm a girl. I'm trans." And almost immediately after the words came out of my mouth, I just, my body went limp and I couldn't look at my mother. My face got so hot and red. I just started to cry profusely. I was just so scared.

thinking that, well, at least I had a couple of weeks with my mother and my family, but it's time to pack up and leave. Very gently, she reached over and she held my hand. She looked at me and said, mommy knew. There was no disgust or disdain or anger. She was very calm. And as I was wiping away the tears on my face,

just sputtered out, "How did you know?" And she responded, "Birth dream." So many Korean women reportedly have these dreams as they are pregnant, dreams that reveal the gender of their children. My mother followed up by saying, "I had birth dreams for your older sister, your younger brother, and your youngest sister. I never had a birth dream for you."

Your gender was always a mystery to me, and now I know why. As my friend was just translating this, I just was just sitting there dumbstruck. My mom said to me, "I thought I had a son, but I have a daughter instead, and that's okay. You're precious, and I love you." I felt liberated. Anything was possible. I didn't have anything to hide from my mother.

or the rest of my family. I could just simply be me. When we would go out to eat at restaurants, she would often talk to the servers who she knew. And there was one instance when my friend that was also still with me nudged me and said, "Your mom is talking about you to the server." And I said, "Oh yeah? About what?"

And she said she's introducing you as her daughter. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Andy Mira for sharing your story with us. Andy still lives in New York where she's the executive director of the Transgender Legal Defense and Education Fund. And Andy and her family in Korea, they are tighter than ever. To find out more about her work, check out our website, stampjudgment.org. The original score for that story was by Renzel Gorio. It was produced by Regina Beriaco.

When we return, an intimate look at a correspondence behind bars. Stay tuned. Welcome back to Snap Judgment, the My Secret Self episode. My name is Glenn Washington. And next, we're going to spotlight an incredible podcast from KALW. It's called Uncuffed. It's a show made by people behind bars in California prisons who share intimate stories of struggles and triumphs, heartache and forgiveness. For about a year,

Friends and family haven't been able to visit their loved ones in prison due to the pandemic. But letters to the inside, they are always a lifeline, especially during a lockdown. And today from Uncuffed, we're going to hear from Adamu Chan, who was recently released from San Quentin, while his friend Edmund is still on the inside. Stamp Judgment. Every day when they do mail call, like, you know, you're hoping that you get some kind of word from the outside, some message.

Affirmation, you know, some good news, anything. I got a letter from my man Edmund, CSP San Quentin, San Quentin, California, 94964. Yeah, that's familiar. I remember addressing my... I've known Edmund for over two years now, a little over two years now.

I met Edmund in San Quentin in the Shakespeare program. We were both aspiring actors, but I think how we became close was through filmmaking and through the First Watch program at San Quentin, and we began spending like every day with each other. He's actually my best friend, and it's really exciting to get a letter from him on the day before his birthday.

So I'm gonna go ahead and open this up. All right, here it goes. Adamu. - Adamu, I hope this letter finds you surrounded by your loved ones and with a deeper appreciation for your freedom. How are you doing? What's the adjustment to the streets been like for you?

Man, when I got the news that you would be going home, a flood of emotions overcame me. I was excited, anxious, and sad. The bittersweetness of the moment, realizing that the man whose soul I fell in love with over the last couple of years would no longer be near me. It's hard to take on the weight of the world alone, but with you, everything was bearable. I'm truly happy you're home where you belong.

As for myself, I'm doing good. I mean, every day that I wake up is a blessing, you know? I have no complaints. Okay, that's a lie. It's been nine months and some change, and I still can't stand this modified program and 23-hour lockdown. Then, to add insult to injury after, quote-unquote, recovering from COVID-19, I have not been the same. I'm what you call a long-hauler, still suffering from the after-effects of the virus.

Around three months ago, I started to have heart palpitations, pressure on my lungs, and my short-term memory was gone. No, is gone. The one thing that I hate the most is that I can't sleep. Anyway, the doctor diagnosed me with mild depression, prescribed me three milligrams of melatonin, and referred me to mental health. I still can't sleep. I know you suggested I see a therapist a long time ago, and honestly...

I should have taken your advice. It's been a minute since I heard your voice so when we talk now over the phone it's awkward. Awkward because my body, my senses are searching for you but you're not there. I think starting this friendship without using technology to communicate forced us to connect on a deeper level. I miss the sound of your laugh. I miss how you would get mad at me for stepping on your shoes because I was always randomly trying to hug you. I miss seeing you in the morning.

I remember you made some sushi and put too much wasabi and I bit into it and almost died. Let me be clear, spicy is not the same as lighter fluid being lit in your nostrils, lol. I have memories like this one that are a constant reminder of how much I value our relationship and more than anything, how much I miss you. I love you, your best friend, Edmund.

Alright, so I'm gonna respond to Edmund. It's his birthday and I think this letter took about two and a half hours to type. I don't have great handwriting like he does, but I think going through the process of actually writing the letter was really difficult because I know how much a birthday means and I know that it's a celebration that should be shared with family and loved ones.

You know, I hope that Edmund was able to celebrate in the right way and so I wanted to express that in this letter. Edmund, I hope you're doing as well as possible despite the circumstances. It's your birthday today and I'm thinking about you intensely, wondering how you're feeling, what you're eating, who you're with, and if you're laughing a deep joyful laugh that comes from deep down in a place untouched by the prison.

Maybe I'm an idealist, but it feels like a radical act to celebrate your birthday in prison. To reclaim that part of yourself that is beyond any conception of a cage made for a human being. My hope is that today your joy doesn't feel contained by the walls that surround you or the judgments of those who don't know you because they've been taught not to see you. But I know that's a tall task.

I was there and I know that the most difficult thing to overcome is this realization that the prison has gotten inside of us. That it has built walls between parts of ourselves, imprisoned our most precious gifts, and obstructed the vision of our true purpose. It is something that I struggle with out here in the "free world" where I see shadows of the prison everywhere in this new Bay Area that I've entered.

The Bay Area, and I'm sure this is true of all urban spaces across the U.S., is a place where every home, every business has a Black Lives Matter sign, but I don't see many black people in the Bay Area anymore. And this leads me to thinking about how this place called the Bay Area is policed, who's allowed to be here and who's not, and then from that what I'm doing here, how I'm policing my own self to fit into some norm that makes my presence here acceptable and not a threat.

And when we cut off part of ourselves to better fit into the spaces designed to contain us, we move farther away from ourselves, become less of ourselves, and ultimately become part of the prison itself. Sorry, did that get a little too abstract? I think I just wanted to make the point that the relationship that we built, our friendship,

has been key to disrupting all of this. It is where I'm able to be my truest self, where I learned the practice of accountability and care in relationships, where together we played a part in creating a vibrant arts and academic community on the inside. But most importantly, our relationship allowed me to see beyond the walls that blocked our view of the ocean and horizon, to see myself outside. I love you, brother. You don't even know. Thank you for sharing all of your precious stories with me.

Even though I know you only gain the power of storytelling through suffering, I'm happy that you are finding ways to care for yourself in spite of such dire circumstances and in the absence of much direct support. Know that you are always here with me and I am always there and I will do everything in my power to see you are home sooner than you think. Happy Born Day, Edmund. I love you. Adamu. So, about to drop this letter off.

To Edmund Had to drive a couple blocks to go find a mailbox But I think it's something to be said about The lengths that folks go to keep these relationships alive You know, we can't just pick up a phone and call them Or send them a text message or send them an email You know, it's really important for me To know that Edmund knows that he's supported out here And that these words reach him

So I'm hoping that this letter finds its way to him soon. About to drop it in here. I'll put some pictures in there and also some stamps so he can write me back or write whoever he wants to. So yeah, hopefully this letter gets to him. Hopefully it gets to him quick. The prison isn't just the physical walls that keep folks from their communities. It's also like this ideology that like

people are separated, that these people over here are bad and these people over here are something else, right? And so part of that is, yeah, my responsibility to folks that are still inside and for them to know that they're still part of this community. We're still part of a greater community. I try to overcome these artificial boundaries that seem like they exist. Thank you. The whole team over at Uncuff thanks to Adamu Chan and Edmund Richardson for reading their letters.

This piece from Uncuffed was produced by Adamu Chan, Nenna Genzo-Debs, Angela Johnston, Pat Macidi-Miller, and Eli Worshafter. You can listen to Uncuffed wherever you get your podcasts, where they have a full version of this story that includes more letters from loved ones. Be sure to follow and subscribe. We have links to all that is Uncuffed on our website, snapjudgment.org.

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