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3.97 AVERAGE
3.97 AVERAGE
I stumbled upon this in my local independent bookstore and, when I finished my previous book just before traveling for Thanksgiving, I thought I’d give this a go. I’m sure glad that I did! It was engaging and compelling - both in its voice/the writing style and in the story itself. It made me think about times in my childhood when I responded inadequately to classmates who were adopted, as well as times when I misunderstood others’ racial identities. I so appreciate Chung’s vulnerability in sharing her story of searching for her identity. This story has impacted me and the level of empathy I have for those who are adopted, especially trans-racial adoptees.
emotional
hopeful
informative
inspiring
reflective
medium-paced
Im usually not one for memoirs, but I really enjoyed this book! It offered very important reflection and insight on trans-racial adoption and the meaning of family. It was beautifully written and compelling.
An insightful collection of reflections detailing the insecurities, personal growth, and exploration of culture of a Korean woman who was adopted and raised by White parents. Beautifully written and heart wrenchingly sincere.
When I read the blurb, this sounded like an interesting concept, and I was intrigued, but the writing was meh, and the author basically was like woe is me at every turn. I get adoption is difficult at times, and I sympathize with that, but this author made it seem like she had the hardest life ever (in reality, far from it). I just found myself rolling my eyes a lot. Really disappointed because a really good book could’ve been written about transracial adoption, but this is not it.
Nicole Chung was born to Korean immigrants in Seattle and adopted at two months old by a white couple in southern Oregon. Her memoir dwells less than I expected on her experience being an Asian child in an all-white neighborhood, though it's clear that she experienced bullying and racism throughout her time at school, and she also talks about the thoughtless microaggressions and sometimes outright racist comments from her white extended family members. Instead, this is a book mostly about her own identity development as she sought to reconnect with her birth family as an adult and developed an additional layer to her identity by becoming a parent herself. In seeking to find out how she really came to be surrendered for adoption, she learns that the members of her birth family are their own complex individuals.
Although the book's first part is framed by a story about Nicole, fresh out of college, being asked by a white couple if they should adopt a child of another race, the book ultimately ends up being less about transracial adoption than about the importance of open adoption. I cringed at the "colorblind" approach her parents took to her different race, but more so at how they kept from her the information that her birth mother wanted to get in touch and how much they tried to dissuade her from searching as an adult, while claiming that they supported her decision. It's clear how much richer Chung's sense of identity is by the end when she has a connection with her birth family again — not, she says, because she wishes her adoptive parents had taught her Korean and sent her to "culture camp," but because she was now connected to the actual people who shared her biology and could provide a family history stretching back generations. I think this book still has a lot of important lessons for those adopting transracially, but I think it can be valuable for anyone seeking to adopt who doesn't understand the value of an open adoption.
Throughout the first half of the book, Chung intersperses sections from her biological sister's perspective, and I wasn't sure exactly what the purpose was (unless it was just to pad out what is still not a very long book). If she wanted to compare side-by-side her life with what it might have been like to grow up in her biological family, then I think she would have included more details about Cindy's life that were instead revealed as surprises later. However, because she did provide glimpses of Cindy's life, this meant that it was not a surprise later on when she succeeded in reconnecting with her sister, as she obviously could have only gotten this perspective from her directly. I think the book probably could have done without these sections.
I recently heard a podcast guest talking about how she doesn't like reading memoirs from people who are still "in the middle," without the perspective of time and distance on the events they're writing about. I think Chung suffers from this a little bit, but not enough that I don't think her story was worth telling now. It's important to hear the perspectives of adult adoptees (and birth parents!) and this is a good place to start.
Although the book's first part is framed by a story about Nicole, fresh out of college, being asked by a white couple if they should adopt a child of another race, the book ultimately ends up being less about transracial adoption than about the importance of open adoption. I cringed at the "colorblind" approach her parents took to her different race, but more so at how they kept from her the information that her birth mother wanted to get in touch and how much they tried to dissuade her from searching as an adult, while claiming that they supported her decision. It's clear how much richer Chung's sense of identity is by the end when she has a connection with her birth family again — not, she says, because she wishes her adoptive parents had taught her Korean and sent her to "culture camp," but because she was now connected to the actual people who shared her biology and could provide a family history stretching back generations. I think this book still has a lot of important lessons for those adopting transracially, but I think it can be valuable for anyone seeking to adopt who doesn't understand the value of an open adoption.
Throughout the first half of the book, Chung intersperses sections from her biological sister's perspective, and I wasn't sure exactly what the purpose was (unless it was just to pad out what is still not a very long book). If she wanted to compare side-by-side her life with what it might have been like to grow up in her biological family, then I think she would have included more details about Cindy's life that were instead revealed as surprises later. However, because she did provide glimpses of Cindy's life, this meant that it was not a surprise later on when she succeeded in reconnecting with her sister, as she obviously could have only gotten this perspective from her directly. I think the book probably could have done without these sections.
I recently heard a podcast guest talking about how she doesn't like reading memoirs from people who are still "in the middle," without the perspective of time and distance on the events they're writing about. I think Chung suffers from this a little bit, but not enough that I don't think her story was worth telling now. It's important to hear the perspectives of adult adoptees (and birth parents!) and this is a good place to start.
emotional
hopeful
reflective
sad
medium-paced
This is such an important book about a delicate topic. I’m so glad I read — and reread — it.
you know, this book about motherhood made me cry an awful lot despite me not wanting to have kids.
After I finished “All You Can Ever Know,” I wanted to press it into the hands of my loved ones and say, “This is the book you must read if you want to understand me. THIS is a book finally written for me.”
In "All You Can Ever Know," Chung shares her experience as a transracial adoptee. It is an exploration of family and identity and the tension between the two – how family forms your identity and subsumes your identity for the sake of the tribe. It is a topic I know well. Like Chung, I am Korean by ethnicity but was adopted and raised by a white family. It takes place in a setting — the Pacific Northwest — that is also the backdrop to my life.
Chung was born premature at Seattle Children’s Hospital. Her birth family gave her up for adoption for reasons that reveal themselves as the book goes on. She was adopted by a loving couple in southern Oregon. Teased and bullied by her classmates as a child, Chung always wondered about her birth family and was faced with the limits of what she could know, giving the book its title. One day she found a business card with a lawyer’s name on it in her parents’ files. She called the number and set off a series of events that connected her with her birth family.
I grew up in Port Orchard on Washington’s Kitsap Peninsula. Because of its proximity to Bremerton, the navy town just north, my town was more diverse than Chung’s. But still I stuck out. I was browner than the mostly white community surrounding me. Raised by a white family, I didn’t have much in common with the people of color I met either.
My family was very loving and I found a community of friends I have to this day, but often I had to face how alone I was. That’s why reading “All You Can Ever Know” feels like such a solace — for the first time the story being told is my story too.
With honesty and clarity, Chung shares experiences and emotions I’ve had too — some of which I haven’t been brave enough to write about or even verbalize: How her parents completely accepted her into the family but weren’t prepared to acknowledge the things that made her different; how pain over adoption is kept secret because it feels like a betrayal of the community who raised you; how having a child of her own made her curiosity about her origins all the more urgent until she couldn’t deny it any longer.
For me, the book’s biggest revelation is about narratives — the stories we tell to make sense of ourselves. I don’t know my origins or reasons for being on this earth. I was told I was abandoned at a police station in South Korea, and I can’t even know if that’s true. How can I make sense of my story?
Chung’s parents told her it was God’s plan for her to be with them. My non-religious community told me that it was destiny, meant to be. But if it was written in the stars, there’s no room to question it. The counter-narrative states that you can’t feel whole until you’ve found your origins – that reunion will heal the wounds in your heart.
Neither sits right with me. One approach prioritizes the role of the adoptive family, while the other prioritizes the birth culture. What if there’s another option?
Chung shows us a new narrative that belongs to the adoptee alone: the fate of the adoptee is to always be questing, processing and reinventing the meaning of family and heritage. As the book goes on, Chung finds answers, but they lead to even more questions and open up more wounds, while healing others. At book’s end, her journey isn’t over.
Quoting a birth mother, she writes, “If there’s something that everyone should know about adoption, it’s that there’s no end to this. There’s no closure.”
My grandpa just turned 98. On one visit, he looked at me, his eyes moistening, and said in his slow Southern drawl, “We sure are lucky to have you. Do you ever think about finding your parents?” For the first time, someone in my family was asking about my adoption. At his old age, he still wants to know and connect. He remembers that my experience in the family is different.
“I don’t know, Grandpa, I just don’t know,” I said.
Nicole Chung’s memoir has shown me how an adoptee’s search evolves but never ends. That is my story. I know this answer is the best I can give right now, and I know someday my answer may change. For now, it is enough.
In "All You Can Ever Know," Chung shares her experience as a transracial adoptee. It is an exploration of family and identity and the tension between the two – how family forms your identity and subsumes your identity for the sake of the tribe. It is a topic I know well. Like Chung, I am Korean by ethnicity but was adopted and raised by a white family. It takes place in a setting — the Pacific Northwest — that is also the backdrop to my life.
Chung was born premature at Seattle Children’s Hospital. Her birth family gave her up for adoption for reasons that reveal themselves as the book goes on. She was adopted by a loving couple in southern Oregon. Teased and bullied by her classmates as a child, Chung always wondered about her birth family and was faced with the limits of what she could know, giving the book its title. One day she found a business card with a lawyer’s name on it in her parents’ files. She called the number and set off a series of events that connected her with her birth family.
I grew up in Port Orchard on Washington’s Kitsap Peninsula. Because of its proximity to Bremerton, the navy town just north, my town was more diverse than Chung’s. But still I stuck out. I was browner than the mostly white community surrounding me. Raised by a white family, I didn’t have much in common with the people of color I met either.
My family was very loving and I found a community of friends I have to this day, but often I had to face how alone I was. That’s why reading “All You Can Ever Know” feels like such a solace — for the first time the story being told is my story too.
With honesty and clarity, Chung shares experiences and emotions I’ve had too — some of which I haven’t been brave enough to write about or even verbalize: How her parents completely accepted her into the family but weren’t prepared to acknowledge the things that made her different; how pain over adoption is kept secret because it feels like a betrayal of the community who raised you; how having a child of her own made her curiosity about her origins all the more urgent until she couldn’t deny it any longer.
For me, the book’s biggest revelation is about narratives — the stories we tell to make sense of ourselves. I don’t know my origins or reasons for being on this earth. I was told I was abandoned at a police station in South Korea, and I can’t even know if that’s true. How can I make sense of my story?
Chung’s parents told her it was God’s plan for her to be with them. My non-religious community told me that it was destiny, meant to be. But if it was written in the stars, there’s no room to question it. The counter-narrative states that you can’t feel whole until you’ve found your origins – that reunion will heal the wounds in your heart.
Neither sits right with me. One approach prioritizes the role of the adoptive family, while the other prioritizes the birth culture. What if there’s another option?
Chung shows us a new narrative that belongs to the adoptee alone: the fate of the adoptee is to always be questing, processing and reinventing the meaning of family and heritage. As the book goes on, Chung finds answers, but they lead to even more questions and open up more wounds, while healing others. At book’s end, her journey isn’t over.
Quoting a birth mother, she writes, “If there’s something that everyone should know about adoption, it’s that there’s no end to this. There’s no closure.”
My grandpa just turned 98. On one visit, he looked at me, his eyes moistening, and said in his slow Southern drawl, “We sure are lucky to have you. Do you ever think about finding your parents?” For the first time, someone in my family was asking about my adoption. At his old age, he still wants to know and connect. He remembers that my experience in the family is different.
“I don’t know, Grandpa, I just don’t know,” I said.
Nicole Chung’s memoir has shown me how an adoptee’s search evolves but never ends. That is my story. I know this answer is the best I can give right now, and I know someday my answer may change. For now, it is enough.