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But they have — by the thousands. Toby Dawson, an American skier who won a bronze medal in the 2006 Olympic Games, became the face of overseas Koreans when, at age 28, he met with Kim Jae Su, the biological father he had never known. Dawson’s American and Korean families held a teary reunion (where else?) on Oprah.

Other adoptees, however, tell of a less joyful experience. Adoptees speak of being scolded by taxi drivers and passers by for their inability speak Korean properly. They describe the almost intoxicating feeling of realizing that they look like almost everyone they pass on the street, then their crushing disappointment when they realize that they will never be seen as a “real Korean” because of their American upbringing.

Some still see the practice of sending Korean babies overseas as shameful. South Korea is one of the only industrialized nations that still exports children, and many political leaders argue that the practice hurts the country’s standing in the world. When Seoul hosted the summer Olympics in 1988, the controversy reached a fever pitch, and major media in the United States and Korea ran editorials criticizing the practice. The Progressive summed up the concern with a piece titled, “Babies for Sale: South Korea Makes Them, Americans Buy Them.” Korean President Kim Dae Jung met with a group of adoptees to offer a tearful apology. But if the adoption trade is truly a “national shame,” as Kim said, then those adoptees who return to their homeland are — much like the mixed-race war orphans who started the practice of adoption — a living reminder of that disgrace, and are sometimes treated as such.

Yet adoptees need to connect with their homeland has only grown in recent years. Holt International, a global adoption powerhouse based a few miles from Henry Holt’s Oregon farm, hosts regular “motherland” and “heritage” tours, for adoptees who pay between $3,600 and $4,500 per person to explore their homeland and view their adoption files. Some find their families. Others find forged birth certificates, name changes or families who may have no desire to recognize their American offspring, or may expect them to conform to traditional values.

Katy Robinson traveled to Seoul on her own as a 27-year-old woman who had been raised in suburban America, and wrestled with disappointment after meeting her biological father. She was expected to behave as a good Korean daughter, allowing the father whom she had known for just a few weeks tremendous access and influence in her life. Her new family told her a string of half-truths and outright lies about her mother. She never found her omma.

Three years after appearing on Korean TV, Chris Henman is home in California, and he’s still searching for his omma. His only chance to speak with her was through a television camera:

“I know what you did wasn’t easy, you know, having me for nine months, giving birth, and then having to give me away … that isn’t easy for anyone. The decision that you made … I’m not angry … you were younger than I am now... I’m here, I’m happy, I have a great family … so I’d really just like to say thank you.”

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