Vietnam Babylift Personal Stories

Kimberly K. Thompson

My (present) American name is Kimberly Thompson, I was brought to America in 1975 by Operation Babylift. On my tiny and frail wrist was a plastic hospital bracelet that read ?Thi Det, Nguyen?, but I am told it simply means baby girl. I was 18 months old, weighed nearly 9 pounds and was severely ill with malnutrition, vitamin A deficiency and an infected wound to my left leg. The American doctors said that I would not likely live beyond a few weeks. The result of my extreme medical condition was the lose of sight to my left eye and partial sight in my right, both have distinctive scarring.

I do not know if I was abandoned or given to an orphanage, but I am told that I was found in the streets and taken to a hospital. In my dreams, my fairy tales, I believe my father was a soldier (I do not look fully Vietnamese) and my mother was too poor and ashamed to care for me. I believe that in all the ruin and chaos, I was separated from my family, never to know where I came from or who they were.
I don?t even know if I had brothers or sisters.

I was brought to the U.S. with no identification, no name, no papers, nothing to tell me who I was or how I got on Operation Babylift. All I had with me was an angel watching over me, carrying me to safety, to health, to hopefulness. Of all the babies in Vietnam, how did I get on that plane? I watch video footage now, and I can?t help but to wonder if my mother was in those crowds of women pushing their babies at soldiers and doctors, begging them to take their children to a better place. Was I one of those crying babies, confused, scared and unwanted? It appears so?

In 1975 I was adopted by a Caucasian family. After two weeks in Seattle Washington with a foster care family, I was whisked away to a small town called Whittier California. Instantly I had a new mom, a new dad and two new brothers. I became Kimberly Kathryn Payne. By age 5, I began to notice that I looked different from everyone else, different from my family, my friends and classmates. When I asked my mom about this discovery, I was simply told, ?Dad and I went on an airplane to bring you home and make you a part of our family, you are very special, you are adopted?

I grew up as any American kid did, I rode my bike up and down the street, I dressed up at Halloween, decorated Christmas trees, and hunted for Easter eggs. Except, when it came time to blow out the candles on my birthday cake, I didn?t wish for roller skates or Barbie dolls, I wished I wasn?t adopted, I wished to know who my real mom and dad was, I wished to know what my real name was, who my real brothers and sisters were, who I was suppose to be?

I am now 31 years old. I live in Yorba Linda (Orange County) California. I am a graduate student at California State University, Fullerton about to complete my MS in Counseling and become a Marriage and Family Therapist. I am happily married and I am about to embark on a new chapter in my life of career and motherhood.

Although my life turned out pretty great, I am haunted each day and night by the emptiness, the loss, the unknown of my identity struggles. Often I dream that I am wandering the desolate streets of Vietnam, searching to find my family. I stare blankly down each alley way hoping to find a familiar face, waiting desperately for someone to call my name. I hear babies crying, women screaming and weeping. There is gun fire and alarms ringing in my ears. Often, I wake sweaty, cold and scared from nightmares of me being lost and alone and abandoned by those I love. Too often, my husband is forced to reassure me that he is here and that he will never abandon me, that I will never be alone again. Too often, I am unable to trust those around me, for fear that they too will leave me.

I feel out of place, like I don?t belong in my surroundings. Culturally I am a mess. I was raised to be American, a ?white girl? but clearly I am more than that. I know nothing of my ancestry, my heritage, the plight of my people. I have never even eaten Vietnamese food. The Vietnamese community often glares at me with disgust because I do not speak the language or know the mannerisms, I disgrace them.

My only hope today is that through your website, I will be able to reconnect with other adoptees. There is little to no hope that I will ever be reunited with my birth family. I have no identifying information. But if I could just meet others, hear their stories, I may be able to reconstruct ?some small part? of my distorted tale. Through their experiences, I will be able to recapture what it must have been like for me and my family. Through their triumphs I will be able to rejoice in the hope and good that came out of Operation Babylift. I can only hope to feel connected to other adoptees, as they are the closest Vietnamese family I may ever have?
Kimberly K. Thompson
Email: kthompsonmft@sbcglobal.net