Blue Bayou: Justin Chon’s Film Shines Light on Dark Side of International Adoption
“Antonio LeBlanc? How you get a last name like that?
Where are you from? No, where you from? Like born?”
From the opening scene of Justin Chon’s film Blue Bayou, I felt seen. Antonio LeBlanc (Chon) is the first character I’ve ever seen in an American movie (or TV) who is just like me. He didn’t just resemble me—he is me. In fact, I blurted, “Welcome to the story of my life!” out loud in the theater after those first lines of dialogue.
Chon is Korean, so at first glance, this may not seem like a big deal. But I grew up with the last name Pfaltzgraff and white adoptive parents. Justin is a first-generation Korean American and I’m a Korean adoptee. Our experiences overlap in how we navigate various spaces in America, but he grew up surrounded by people who look like him—I did not. Neither did Antonio LeBlanc—and Justin understands that. He gets it. As a Korean adoptee, it was so nice just to be acknowledged this way by an American filmmaker in a movie on the big screen. I felt loved.
“At the Cannes Film Festival in July, where he was promoting his coming film, “Blue Bayou,” director and star Justin Chon said he had had a particularly emotional response to an Asian interviewer from the Netherlands. The journalist, who was adopted, thanked him for his movie, which centers on a Korean American adoptee. And soon he found himself unable to control his response. For a while, Chon “couldn’t stop crying,” he said.”
I read in the NBC News interview that part of Justin’s process for making sure he got Antonio right included consulting Korean adoptees and making changes after having KADs screen some edits. If I hadn’t seen that interview, I still would’ve known given how authentic Antonio’s character was.
While I may not be able to relate to the tattoo, motorcycle-riding side of Antonio, the discomfort I sensed when he found himself thrust into a group of Asians when he visited his Vietnamese friend and her family definitely felt familiar. First, there’s the whole language, culture, and food context—things we know nothing about even though we look like we should. Secondly, for many KADs, it takes until our adult years to understand the world doesn’t see us the way we see ourselves—and truth be told, some Korean adoptees never have that understanding. We feel ”white” and part of the reason a setting similar to the one played out in Blue Bayou is so uncomfortable is because when we’re put in a situation where we find ourselves surrounded by mirror images looking back at us—these are reflections we are not used to seeing. For many KADs being in the presence of another Asian reminds us we look like them—not the blond, blue-eyed people we call family.
The abuse Antonio spoke of at the hands of his adoptive parents is something I first learned about in 1999 when I attended The Gathering—an effort to bring the first generation of Korean adoptees together for the first time. Up until that point, I didn’t know some adoptees ended up in abusive homes. The narrative around adoption is almost always framed as positive. But Antonio’s mother is not exactly who we think of when we think of adoptive parents. She’s not glamorous like Angelina or Madonna, and we can throw that whole “savior” thing out the window given she did nothing to protect her son from his abusive father.
At the center of Blue Bayou is the threat of deportation hanging over Antonio’s head. I was shocked when I became informed back in 1999 that some KADs are not American citizens. I have a picture of me on the Polk County courthouse steps the day I was naturalized when I was 4-years old. But becoming a citizen when you’re an international adoptee until 2000 was reliant on your parents filing for naturalization on your behalf. So many KADs didn’t learn their parents never obtained citizenship for them until they applied for college, their first job, or a passport. I don’t know if there are any adult Korean adoptees who don’t know of at least one other KAD who isn’t a U.S. citizen. For more than half a century we’ve allowed babies and kids to be taken each year from their country of origin by the thousands and sent to America to be legally adopted. But until 2000, those adoptees were not automatically made citizens. How is this even possible?!
While the Child Citizenship Act of 2000 changed the law so all international adoptees become citizens upon legal adoption now, it only grandfathered back to those who were under 18 when it passed. If you were born before 1983, you’re still out of luck. The very name of the act should’ve been a huge red flag: Child Citizenship Act. When it comes to adoptees, rarely do people think about us being adults. The “experts” the media go to (until very recently) have generally been adoptive parents and social workers, but some of the earliest Korean adoptees are now grandparents. Our perspective as adoptees is rarely the same as our parents or social workers. We have had to really fight for the voices of adult adoptees to be heard.
Antonio LeBlanc’s plight in Blue Bayou is fictitious, but it’s inspired by the real-life stories of deported Korean adoptees. Adam Crapser was adopted in 1979 at the age of three and then taken in by a second family years later. Both families were charged with child abuse. Adam was deported back to South Korea in 2016 at the age of 41, separated from his wife, two young daughters, and a baby on the way. While Adam’s story has probably received the most attention, the nightmare he found himself stuck in feels eerily like déjà vu when you hear the stories of all the other deported KADs. Phillip Clay was eight years old when he was sent to America to be adopted. Phillip was deported back in 2012 at the age of 37 despite having known mental health issues. He died by suicide in 2017 when he jumped from the 14th floor of an apartment building in Seoul. D Christian Kim came to the U.S. at the age of five and after being moved between multiple foster homes, he got involved in gang activity which led to his deportation back to South Korea in 2002. Monte Haines is another Korean adoptee who arrived in Iowa (where I grew up) in 1981 at the age of eight. Monte spent time in five different homes, and was physically, mentally, and sexually abused by multiple foster parents. Monte was deported back to Korea in 2009. Unfortunately, these are just a few of deported Korean adoptee stories. Abusive parents and criminal records seem to be something most of the deported adoptees have in common. Multiple adoptive parents or foster homes is another commonality for many. No matter how insignificant or old a record might be, or the circumstances that put them in this position—this technicality is used against these legally adopted babies and kids to send them back as adults to a country where they don’t even know the language.
There are 200,000+ Korean adoptees in more than 15 countries worldwide. Thousands of KADs in the U.S. are still not citizens through no fault of their own.
If you have been following my journey, you know it is my dream to return to Korea for the first time since being adopted at the age of one. Not as a tourist—but to live there for at least a year. But that dream only developed a year ago. Had it not been for the pandemic (and my almost accidental discovery of K-dramas) I would still be blissfully AND ignorantly unaware (and uninterested) in anything to do with the country where I was born. Even though I’ve spent the last year trying to learn Korean, I am woefully unprepared to communicate in what should be my native tongue. As much as I want to return, I am also scared. One of my greatest fears is that I won’t fit in or be accepted—especially once people know I’m an adoptee. What will I do for work? Will I be able to find a job? Until I figure things out, I have the luxury of staying right where I am. If I can’t make things work in a way I’ll be able to handle it—no one is going to force me to leave this country I call home.
Even though my parents had me naturalized I still feel connected to this storyline. I’ve often raised the point to my KAD friends that we could easily have ended up in each other’s homes. It was literally the luck of the draw. I would’ve been in the U.S. for three years before I became a citizen. It leaves a pit in my stomach to know I could’ve easily been one of the adoptees whose parents didn’t have them naturalized. It’s a small but important technicality that gives me a privilege I used to take for granted.
The Adoptee Citizenship Act of 2021 (H.R. 1593, S. 967) has 43 co-sponsors in the House and 7 co-sponsors in the Senate. While this act (if passed) will give citizenship to all international adoptees, it has a loophole that must be closed because this bill will only apply to adoptees who are in the U.S. on the date it passes. There are adoptees from over 28 different countries who are not citizens and at least 50 who have been deported since 2000. If this loophole is not closed, this bill will not apply to those adoptees who have already been deported.
“It is emotional. Otherwise, why do it — why make the film if it’s not going to matter that much to me and to us? ”
I was able to hold it together through the entire movie until the final scene. I’m someone who is normally stoic and prefers not to let others see me cry. But that final scene broke me. I was literally sobbing. Even as I’ve been writing this post, it hasn’t been much better. My daughter Taylor was also weeping—her hands couldn’t keep up with the tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to wipe them away. When I asked her about this later, she told me she was imagining me being the one deported and how it would’ve changed her life. She would’ve been the equivalent of the mixed baby yet to be born. She would’ve grown up only looking at white faces without me in her life. This is the same fate for Antonio’s baby in Blue Bayou because their mom was white.
Chon ended Blue Bayou by highlighting a few adoptees who have been (or are in danger of) being deported. I can’t get them (or the thousands more) out of my mind.
The timing of Blue Bayou is interesting for me. During an Instagram LIVE several weeks ago with Noona’s Noonchi, someone asked how they can support Korean adoptees. What I said then, and I’ll say here as well: call your Reps and tell them to support the Adoptee Citizenship Act of 2021 AND to tell them to close the loophole so any deported adoptees can come home. The host of the IG LIVE wasn’t aware of this issue nor were the majority of the viewers who had tuned in. Since seeing Blue Bayou my daughter Taylor was telling her best friend about it. Even though her friend lives in DC and leans progressive she was also unaware of all these international adoptees without citizenship.
Blue Bayou is not only raising awareness of this issue, it should be inspiring us to try to help shine a light on something that should never have even been. The House and Senate MUST pass this bill that should’ve been settled 21 years ago. Actually, it should’ve been settled with the very first international adoptee.
Please go see Blue Bayou. And call your Reps. Let me say it louder for the people in the back: CALL YOUR REPS!
전지태 감사합니다! 💜
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this piece are my own. The KAD community is not monolithic and we represent many varying experiences and perspectives.
Instagram LIVE with Noona’s Noonchi: Blue Bayou
9/21/21: I discovered this podcast interview a couple days after writing this post. Justin Chon’s portion begins at the 41:30 mark.
