Schrödinger’s Father

My father has been dead for almost a decade. For most people, this wouldn’t come as a shock. Ten years is a long time, after all. I would’ve been thirty-two, not yet middle-aged. He would’ve been in his mid-fifties, I’m pretty sure. For me, though, his death is a surprise.

Along with hundreds of thousands of other children, I was adopted from South Korea in the decades following the Korean War. Infants, including me, dissolved from “The Land of the Morning Calm” and were scattered to other countries to be absorbed into our new homes.

Being adopted means I have two families: my adoptive family, with whom I’ve spent my life, and my biological family, an unknown variable whose influence has quietly but profoundly reverberated through every moment of my existence.

I received the email on a random Monday morning. It’s been three months and seventeen days since I submitted my request. Date of death? Unknown. Cause of death? Also unknown. The sender has no way to find out. Reading these words, time seemed to slow. My body froze. It was a foolish, primitive reflex, but I couldn’t stop my mind from grasping for a scenario in which my birth father wasn’t so indisputably dead.

—
As long as I can remember I’ve found comfort in science. Its principles and rules have been a lifeline to reality. The impersonal certainty and absolute truths give me a sense of security and fairness in the world. When everything else is spinning out of control, I can still rely on the fundamental principles of the universe. The laws of nature are immutable—gravity holds us on planet earth. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. The arrow of time points in one direction.
—

I don’t know much about my early life, my Korean life. Lineage is usually tracked through the father, but as an orphan I am my own head of family—a family of one—established twenty-two days after I was born. According to my adoptive parents, I lived with a foster mother for my first three months. I have since learned that “foster mother” is often code for “orphanage” in Korea. I haven’t mentioned this to my adoptive parents. I wonder if they already know.

I remember other children being told that, as infants they had their father’s nose or their mother’s eyes. For me, though, there’s no living memory, only paperwork. My paperwork indicates that I could see and hear and that I wanted to be held. I imagine a well-fed administrator with a clipboard checking the boxes while observing me from afar, like Henry Ford admiring his Model-T’s. I passed inspection. A baby with all the usual parts and no extras, one that did not appear defective. The administrator noted on my paperwork that he hoped I would “be adopted to a wonderful family.” I wonder how many times he wrote that in his career.

Babies usually develop object permanence—an understanding that objects and people still exist even if they can’t be seen—in their first year of life. Peek-a-boo is one way to teach this. It’s also why hiding things is so thrilling for infants. What happens, though, when your caregivers, your language, your entire culture disappears in that time?

—
Most of the physics we learn in school are classical physics—Newton’s laws of motion, the laws of thermodynamics, maybe some electromagnetism. Classical physics explains the interactions of normal sized objects doing ordinary things at unremarkable speeds. Things like apples falling to the ground, engines powered by gasoline, or air currents heating and cooling the planet. Everyday life.
—

Along with hundreds of thousands of other children I was given to strangers to live my life away from a politically tumultuous, patriarchal culture that disapproved of single mothers. I left my country of origin far too young to speak or read. I didn’t learn the words “어머니” or “아버지” to name the parents I had lost.

If those words are foreign, maybe slightly annoying, then you and I are in the same situation. According to Wikipedia, English speakers outnumber Korean speakers 18-to-1. Less than one-million of the Korean speakers are non-native, so it’s not a stretch to guess that, like me, you probably don’t read Korean.

At three months old I came to the United States and was placed with my adoptive parents. These are the people I’ve called “Mom” and “Dad” for as long as I can remember. Before my arrival, they were vetted by the adoption agency to be good parents. An upstanding family in a nice home in a suburban neighborhood in a stable country. Like wooden nesting dolls, my new life formed a societal Matryoshka cocooning me in safety and opportunity.

Countless nights I spent terrified. I have vague memories of peeking through the bars of my crib at my dad snoring on the floor beside me, a nightlight illuminating the room. Underlying all my experiences was an uneasy sense that things were not as they seemed. I was afraid that the good things in my life would disappear if I wasn’t looking.

—
Quantum mechanics, on the other hand, is the theory that attempts to describe our world at the atomic scale and smaller. It started around a century ago when physicists like Albert Einstein and Max Planck discovered that classical physics couldn’t explain all their observations.

In quantum mechanics, everything in our universe is made up of fundamental building blocks called “quanta,” or particles. These are infinitesimally small shards of space-stuff like electrons and photons. Quanta can behave like either waves or particles. This is known as the wave-particle duality. Sometimes exhibiting wave characteristics, sometimes exhibiting particle characteristics, quanta really don’t belong in either category.
—

Children need their parents most when they’re growing up. My mom and dad tried to give me a normal upbringing in Aurora, Colorado, where they still live. My mom didn’t bake cookies or mend clothes, but she ensured I was fed and she taught me the value of hard work. When I fell out of a tree or scraped my knee on the pavement, she was the one I wanted to fix me up.

My dad was a typical dad who taught me to swim and ride a bike. He may have done a few too many recreational drugs, but in hindsight, even that seems like a typical, eighties-dad thing. Sometimes his efforts were misguided, but they were always in the interest of giving me new and interesting experiences. When my neighbor got his training wheels off before me, my dad tried to placate me by teaching me to drive a car. I couldn’t reach the pedals, so he sat me on his lap to steer, shift, and use the turn signals. Soon after, he taught me to drive backwards in looping figure eights. Somehow this was a useful life skill.

My mom and dad worked hard to take care of me and give me the necessary tools to live a good life. Like all parents, they didn’t get everything right, but they tried their best. The adoption agency was right. They were good parents.

—
Quantum entanglement is the idea that two particles can remain connected even when separated by vast distances. Not only is it a romantic idea but it has been tested experimentally. A shared origin can create a connection between particles that remains intact, regardless of the distance or obstacles between them. Einstein famously described quantum entanglement as “spooky action at a distance.”
—

Growing up I had a very active imagination. Perhaps I was predisposed to it, or perhaps being adopted between dissimilar cultures gave me a loose sense of reality. I loved fantasy novels and cartoons. I would try to catch glimpses of unseen creatures out of the corners of my eyes. I imagined a hidden reality just beneath the surface of my suburban world. On any given day I could imagine a universe of fantastic possibilities with no way of knowing which one was true.

I imagined aliens zipped into human bodies, demons made of chattering teeth, and other horrors lurking around every corner. I once tried to manifest an imaginary friend, but for some reason it was impossible for my young mind to conjure someone who was on my side.

When other kids would ask about my “real” parents, I had to wonder who and where they were. I imagined my birth mother as modest and beautiful with long dark hair like mine. I suspected that my birth father was maybe a businessman wearing a dark suit working in a glass high rise. Being important seemed like a good reason for why he couldn’t be with me.

I imagined them as a couple, giving me up in a moment of weakness. I imagined them realizing their mistake and wanting me back. If I was good enough—smart, talented, pretty—somehow, they would get word and come find me. I would prove to them I didn’t need much. I would be easy to love.

—
According to quantum mechanics, particles can exist in multiple states at once. When observed, a particle’s state is chosen. Sometimes this is referred to as the “collapse of the wave function.” Essentially, when no one is looking, the particle has a cloud of positions it can take. It is defined only by its possibilities. Once observed, all but one state disappears.
—

Culturally, I’m American. I usually wear shoes in the house. The last time we went to an Asian friend’s house, my partner reminded me to wear good socks. I don’t know when eye contact is considered rude in Asian cultures. Unlike younger Americans of all origins, I can’t even name the most famous K-pop groups or stars. In college, the slur of endearment for someone like me was “Twinkie.” Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. An imposter. The opposite was “egg,” a compliment, shorthand for “one of us.”

I’m ashamed to admit that my knowledge of Korean culture doesn’t extend much past general Asian stereotypes. Delicate, lotus blossom women and neutered men. Model minorities who play by the rules, work hard, and are good at math. I have a strong drive to break the stereotype, but you’ve probably figured out I’m pretty good at math.

In middle school my parents dragged me to a Korean heritage camp in the Rocky Mountains. The adults had seminars while the kids were supposed to learn about Korean culture and befriend fellow adoptees. Some of the kids were earnest in their learning, playing dress up in traditional Korean garb or trying to pronounce Korean words. They were dorks. Instead, my friends and I tortured the camp counselors and tried to smoke the sagebrush pervading the property. Playing make believe in a culture that had discarded us felt like begging the enemy to be loved.

—
A thought experiment you may have heard of is “Schrödinger’s Cat.” In it, a cat is sealed in a box along with a radioactive element that may or may not trigger the release of poison. The cat has two possible states: alive or dead. The thought experiment posits that the cat is simultaneously alive and dead until the box is opened. Observing the contents of the box forces it into its final state.
—

A few years after Korean heritage camp, a friend went back to Korea to meet her birth mother. She discovered she had younger sisters. She was the only one who was unwanted. I imagined her family living in Korea, a happy sum of its parts that added up to a complete family unit. One that did not include her. I imagined the family waiting at the door to greet my friend with her embarrassingly white parents. I imagined the two families struggling to find intersections of personal traits—favorite colors, favorite foods—via the clunky imprecision of a novice translator. When my friend returned to the United States, she seemed distant, distracted, somehow less herself. There was a sadness about her that I didn’t want to experience. She knew the truth. Her wave function had collapsed.

In my early twenties I visited a friend teaching English in South Korea. I was most comfortable with the other teachers, predominantly Australian women of European descent. Occasionally, though, our motley crew overlapped with “real” Koreans. At a group dinner, a fellow diner was annoyed by how I was holding my chopsticks. If I were Korean, I may have called him 오빠 (oppa), a term of endearment that loosely means “big brother,” but sounds to me like a toast in Greek. Instead, I called him by his name which I have long since forgotten.

I had been taught to use chopsticks as a toddler at a Chinese restaurant where a waiter used a rolled up wrapper and rubber band to MacGyver a utensil for my tiny hands. The waiter never got around to teaching me the full technique which requires all but the pinky finger. I didn’t know my ring finger was supposed to support the bottom chopstick.

One of the Australians asked why 오빠 (oppa) had complimented their chopstick manners earlier when they were using the same method. He said there were different standards for non-Asians and Asians. Sometimes viewed as Asian and sometimes viewed as American, I really don’t belong in either category.

As I learned more about South Korea—the clash of cultures between traditional values and modernity, the dramatic economic sea changes—I realized no one was looking for me. It didn’t matter how good I was. I went on with my life.

—
Who or what constitutes an “observer” has been highly contested in quantum mechanics. The most widely accepted theory is the Copenhagen interpretation, which defines an observer as any measurement or physical process such as a mark on a photographic plate. Other theorists posit that a human observer is required at some stage, although this seems impossible to test.

Regardless of the nature of the observer, the observer of a quantum system has great power. It is the act of observing that causes a quantum particle to collapse to a single state, the cat to be dead or alive. Repeated observations can even suspend a system’s decay, seemingly slowing down time. Once a phenomenon is observed, though, it is irreversible.
—

When I finally asked my mom for my paperwork it took her multiple tries to send the fifteen pages. She also included my Christmas wish list from when I was five. She scanned each page into its own individual file, perhaps a quirk of technology, perhaps she was immersing herself in the labor of love, or perhaps she was embarrassed that there wasn’t more information.

My paperwork, frustratingly brief, gave me superficial details about my birth mother – blood type, skin color, height – and stated that she had a “difference in character” with my birth father. It indicates that they had parted ways before she knew she was pregnant.

With these scant details, I imagined a whole new set of possibilities. I wondered about the veracity of my paperwork or if I was a result of sex work. I wondered if I had any siblings, a hope that I suppressed in all but my deepest dreams. Irrationally, I wanted a kindly older brother who could teach me Korean things without embarrassing me. I imagined my birth mother as a farmer (as indicated on my paperwork), a secretary, a teacher, a musician. I had imagined my birth father as an office worker, but now also as a factory worker, a cyclist, a scientist, or maybe a lieutenant in organized crime.

I imagined a happy, tearful reunion, feeling joy at being reunited and a deep longing for the life I missed out on. I imagined Korean meals made with love and outbursts about the strength of genetics shouted through impolite mouthfuls of kimchi: “We have the same cheeks!” or “You hate dill pickles? I hate dill pickles, too!” I imagined another scenario with a cold, callused reception. A scenario in which I would later realize that I am the living, breathing manifestation of their shame. I worried that they’d ask me for a kidney, or money, or deference.

I imagined two young, naïve Korean kids mistaking hormones for love. An easy thing to imagine, mundanely probable. I imagined a future where I would find them more mature, more stable, more experienced in life.

—
While quantum mechanics can seem like magic, we are still subject to the fundamental principles of the universe. Gravity holds us on planet earth. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. The arrow of time points in one direction.
—

Monday morning, the phenomenon is observed. It can’t be undone. The moment slows but I can’t go back in time. My birth father has been dead for a decade. I imagine a desiccated corpse in a silent graveyard, or cremated remains scattered to the wind. I will never shake his hand. We will never compare noses.

I remind myself that I have a dad who I see regularly and who tells me he’s proud of me. I’m fortunate to have someone who loves me. He’s a good dad. I remind myself that my birth father has been dead for years and that although my knowledge is new, the fact is immutable.