As many are aware, China instated a one child policy from 1979 up until 2015. They are currently “phasing it out,” but the effects are pervasive through the country and the world. During the time of this law’s enforcement, children were being orphaned and in the worst case scenario, dying. Specifically, baby girls were being orphaned due to the nature of the law and its prioritization of males.

As one such female orphan, I can consider myself wildly lucky. For the first small portion of my life, I didn’t exist. It’s strange to think about because obviously I was around, probably gurgling and participating in other such infant activities. The point is that before I was left by the side of a road (literally just straight chilling in a basket like in a movie), I didn’t have a history.

Existing with one foot in and one foot out is a strange thing. Having been to China and even the places of personal, if non-remembered, landmark, it is safe to say that the nation of my birth and the nation of my rearing are about as dichotomous as they come. China has an entirely different set of social codes, socioeconomic structures and customs. Everything from only being able to drink bottled water to squat toilets to architecture made sure that I was hyper aware every second that I was not in Kansas anymore.

Explaining to other people the liminal space that I inhabit is not an easy task. While the U.S. is certainly diverse and varying identities are not uncommon, there is still an inherent misunderstanding that I often encounter. One might be non-white and have a community or cultural foundation with which to celebrate that difference. These cultural spaces can be supportive or grounding for an immigrant in America. For me, these spaces didn’t exist. In a way, I’m glad about that, though.

My family is white and culturally American given that both sets of my grandparents are at least first generation European immigrants. Though I have spent my whole life in this social structure and culture, there is still a line in the sand when it comes to my family. There is my brother and I, both Asian and biologically unrelated to anyone we know including one another, and then there are the people who have surrounded us with the best life possible.

When others in my life first meet my family, there is always the same look. A moment of confusion and then recognition. Inevitably, there is always the same follow-up question: “You didn’t tell me you were adopted?” To which I only have, “It never came up” as a response. Because this is true. It doesn’t come up in common conversation and would be weird for me to bring up without preamble.

The oddest thing is: my history is far from unique. This law impacted an entire generation of people from the most populous country on Earth. There are individuals all over the world who were adopted due to similar circumstances. This great diaspora of Chinese orphans impacted by the one-child policy are a community unto themselves.

Despite this fragmented sense of unity, I have a disassociation from my birthplace and culture. At the same time, I cannot deny that it is there. I cannot change the fact that people will always associate me with Asia before they do Baltimore or America. The brunt of schoolyard jokes as a child and a bit harsher commentary as an adult, I was taught that my difference made me less. Despite the efforts of my parents and family, I internalized that my Asian-ness would always set me apart in a negative capacity. While logically this association of unworthiness isn’t true, there is a certain degree of conditioning that occurs to children that they carry with the as adults.

It has only been in recent years that my has skin thickened and I no longer change the topic when asked about my origins. There is no pride in being an orphan, but there is certainly plenty to be found in what came next.