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We are in a sixth-floor church, which seems more like a converted warehouse room than the kind of churches I’m used to. It is cool from air conditioning, and I’m exhausted because last night I arrived in Korea for the first time since I was given up for adoption in the late seventies. As I desperately try to keep my eyes open, my mind is cloudy from the news that I will meet my birth family after the church service. Mrs. Lee, the mother of a Korean friend of mine in Minneapolis, found them.

The service is over, and a man in a suit leads me out first. Mrs. Lee and I walk toward the elevator, and instead of leaving, the man continues to guide us down a hallway toward a light. In seconds, I hear loud crying and women rush toward me, calling my name, “Mi Soon-ah! Mi Soon-ah! Mi Soon-ah!” This happens so quickly that I cannot feel my body anymore. The women grab my arms tightly and lead me into a brightly lit room. There, on the sofa, are my parents with their heads down, looking at me, sobbing quietly. They speak in rapid Korean, words that I do not know, and I hear my name intertwined in their language.

The three other women are my sisters, and they touch my hands, arms, and thighs as I sit on the dry, brown leather sofa. They want me to repeat after them, “Eom-ma! A-ppah! Eon-ni!”

I barely say it, and they all clap their hands. They smile, talking and crying at the same time, while my friend’s mother says, “They are very sorry. They keep saying how sorry they are to you. They worry you are angry at them.”

I ask her to translate, “Don’t be sorry. I am not angry. I am okay. I have a nice life in America.”

The rest of Mrs. Lee’s entourage takes pictures as if this family reunion is a tourist attraction. They keep saying to me, “How do you feel? You must be so happy. Why aren’t you crying?”

For the past year, I have been teaching English classes to children and adults, Mr. Kim is often the only student to show up for my class. A high-ranking salary man at the Bank of Korea, he is quick to tell me that he punches in at the top 5 percent of earners in the country. He’s in his late forties, loves to take long walks to work, and is an ardent Buddhist, with the exception of late drinking nights with his friends and colleagues. He loves to talk about young, beautiful girls, and he’s been married for over twenty years.

I bring an article to class about a recent “ground-breaking” Korean drama series. It was about a young woman, plump by Korean standards, on the verge of a-jum-ma status—She was a baker who had fallen in love with the handsome, wealthy owner of the bakery. In Seoul, thin is in, along with any procedure to make a young woman more beautiful, because owning beauty often means financial security through marriage. But in this series, the protagonist didn’t have a size-2 waist, and yet the prince was still interested in her.

The article discussed a recent study in which Korean women were ranked in beauty from 1 to 5, with 5 being the most beautiful. The study then examined their husbands’ salaries. It found that as the women’s ranks increased, so did their husbands’ salaries—by $1,300 or more for each group.

I ask Mr. Kim what he thinks of this, and he fully agrees with the findings. In his unique English accent and gregarious voice, he says, “And, the more power you are, the more beauty your secretary is.”

“Really? Is your secretary beautiful?”

“Yes! Yes! Very, very beautiful! Miss Yang . . . do you think you are beautiful?”

I’m surprised by his question, although I’m pretty used to the subject of beauty in Korea, so it doesn’t feel that strange. “I don’t know. I’m just regular.”

Mr. Kim definitively says, “Miss Yang. You are a 4.”

“Oh, um, okay . . . I guess you just ranked me.”