I’d imagine most people my age would leave their first year of college invigorated with the freedom that came with it, only to return home frustrated by re-imposed curfews and other such if-you’re-going-to-live-in-this-house kinds of rules. But the heated arguments I had with my mom weren’t over what time I had to have the car home; instead, we argued over what color the trim on the new house was going to be. Did allagash green really marry the sienna brown window frames with the juniper shingles, or was this a hasty elopement doomed for aesthetic failure? My stepdad would back away from these discussions and for good reason: my mom and I both stand so staunch in our design opinions that criticism quickly becomes unconstructive and defenses are raised. But underlying these frivolous debates are the remnants of past arguments upon which the dust has never completely settled. In the past I used to wonder how things may have been had I been raised by my biological parents as opposed to being adopted. Perhaps the road would not have been so bumpy. I worried that I would never share one of those moments with my mom when, 10 years down the line on a crisp fall day, the two of us meet in a cozy coffee shop, nestle into armchairs and laugh about the endearing quirks of the men in our lives as we eye each other knowingly over our lattés.

The topic of adoption resurfaced in my life one sweaty night during my first week at Macalester. My fellow first-year course classmates and I found ourselves packed into a Dupresian double and the issue just fell onto the table, or rather the smelly-foot carpet. One opinion was voiced by an intense boy whose name I had mistakenly memorized as Ben. Ben had strong feelings against adoption, specifically the uncertainty of it—not knowing what kind of personality your child would have and whether or not you could ever get along. Here was my cue to chime in and prove one of diversity’s merits by sharing my personal life experiences, but instead I stammered, “I’m adopted.” Ben was at a loss for words and so was I. While he wondered if I would ever forgive him, I started to wonder what my opinion was on the matter. I had never really given my situation much thought because I had never been made to feel as though I was different from any other kids, but I was. Maybe he was right about my mom and I. Maybe our tempestuous relationship could have been avoided had we shared a direct bloodline. I thought of all those poor, doomed South Korean babies flying on the plane to America to unhappy lives with their adoptive parents. Poor little tykes.

Then I started to think about my friends and the relationships they shared with their parents. None of them were adopted, but the fact didn’t seem to ensure a healthy relationship with their parents, or even a functional one at the least. Ben’s hypothesis was bullshit, and I thanked God that all those Korean babies weren’t really doomed.

There is really no guarantee that a parent will get along with their son or daughter—having a child is a gamble no matter what. The only elements that can foster a working relationship are patience, compromise, and respectful communication. It’s corny things like these that made it possible for Ben (whose name I soon learned was actually Alex) and I to be friends... and our biochemical pathways don’t even express the same DNA sequences! When my mom and I do not get along, it is not the fault of our genetic differences, it is the fault of our unwillingness to compromise. And how did the house trim debate resolve? Allagash green was her choice and the partnership between sienna brown window frames and juniper shingles was consummated. To me it sounded like a rocky relationship, but all relationships are at times and we both knew this. Maybe my mom and I will meet at a café 10 years from now and share a moment fit for a Meg Ryan movie, or maybe I’ll show up late and then say something that will be misinterpreted and we’ll both start squawking at each other. But at least it’s reassuring to know that our personality flaws will be the culprit and not our uncontrollable genetic differences.