By Jennifer Kwon Dobbs

Three fathers, three languages — Korean, English and German. How my fathers were silent, worked and danced were gifts that showed me the way.

I do not have my birth father’s name nor have I met him. Or perhaps he held me during the first few days of my life before someone took me to the orphanage’s gate for someone else to find. Instead of memory, I have my father’s silence and all the documented names for it. Father’s name: no records. Father’s whereabouts: unknown. Yet this silence is not a loss. Instead, it taught me how to listen, how to perceive him in me. I could return to that part of myself that he gave me — his hands in my hands, his face in mine — not to name it, for surely I will be wrong, but rather to dwell in it. In my father’s silence, I can hear my heart beating, his heart in my heart. For a writer of poetry, this is the first rhythm of which all others are variations.

The hands of my adoptive father, Danny Dobbs, are callused from his job in the steel mill furnace, operating the strand carrying beams to the cooling unit. Coming home, he would sit in his blue recliner, open the tobacco can, pack the pipe, and suck the flame until the cherry glowed. Watching my father smoke, I could see small cuts on his arms, the grafted skin on his left ankle that wrapped around his entire leg, and to me, his body proved that only love worked this hard. He never complained. While completing my dissertation, I suffered through back pain, insomnia, and neck cramps, but remembering my father’s body, I felt humbled and persevered. If love showed in my father’s work, then it might also show in mine.

And love also showed in how my father-in-law, Uwe Liess, danced to The Specials with me at my wedding to Stefan, his son. Sixty-eight years old, my father, twists at the waist, waves his hands in the air, and smiles at me, rocking back and forth. His black patent leather shoes and tuxedo buttons wink. “I have a new daughter,” he said when he hugged me after the wedding ceremony held at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. A new daughter and a new wife, I spin around while he takes hold of my waist. We whirl together laughing, my white tea-length skirt bouncing. His eyes are bright through his wire-rimmed glasses, and his trimmed white beard accentuates the same jaw that my husband has. I see Stefan clap, and he takes my hand while my father stands to the side as my husband dips me back then kisses me.

In my heart, my fathers are all together — silent, at work and dancing — and, as their daughter, I am listening. I am persevering. I am learning how to dance with all of them and to love.

Ask Why

By Paula Yoo

It was a typical Sunday night for my dad and I, going over my math homework.

I was in the fourth grade and prided myself on being a math whiz, just like my dad. Math was easy. All I had to do was memorize formulas.

The surface area of a rectangle? A=bxh.

Area of a circle? A=πr2

Volume of a cylinder? V=πr2h

But things got tricky when my dad decided I had done enough memorizing. It was time to understand the reasons behind the formulas, he told me.

He started with the formula for the area of a triangle. A=1/2bh. He drew rectangles and squares on my notebook and asked me to find the triangle.

I’d draw a dotted line, splitting the corners to create the hidden triangle. “Good,” my dad said. “So what’s the height of that triangle?”

Suddenly, the sight of all those triangles scribbled across my notebook overwhelmed me. I panicked. I couldn’t see its height. I had no idea what my dad was talking about. Besides, what was the big deal? “All I need is the formula,” I complained. “I don’t need to know why the formula works.”

And thus began the infamous Battle Over the Height of the Triangle that would make me hate math, especially geometry, forever. I hated that my dad was so stubborn. I hated that he would not let me leave until I found the height of every single triangle he had sketched. Who cares? I thought, trying not to cry. WHO CARES ABOUT THESE STUPID TRIANGLES?

I finally faked it, nodding my head while my dad explained the reasons behind A=1/2bh, pretending that I understood every word. But all I really understood were two things:

1. I hated triangles.

2. I hated the look of disappointment in my father’s eyes as he realized I would never be an engineer.

Of course, looking back, my dad wasn’t disappointed. Frustrated? Sure. But that night, I felt this incredible pressure to be extra good at math in order to avoid what I mistakenly interpreted as disappointment in my dad’s eyes.

Over the years, the Battle Over the Height of the Triangle soon led to the Conflict of Absolute Values in the seventh grade and finally to the horrific Civil War of Common Derivatives and Integrals during my senior year of high school.

Words were my salvation as I saw my math grades plummet while my English grades skyrocketed. (This is also known as an “inverse relationship” where one variable decreases as another increases. See? At least I remember SOMETHING from my math days …)

I became a writer instead of an engineer. But I never could have become a successful writer without my father’s help. Even though he never had to tutor me in English or help me write an essay, my dad’s stubborn insistence that I understand the WHY behind the math formulas spilled into my writing. I questioned every book that I read. I wondered WHY the author chose his or her words to describe a character or place or theme. I never took anything for granted with my own writing — every phrase, every word was parsed down to the letter, because once I knew the reason behind every single little detail, the bigger picture would emerge.

Just like those mysterious triangles hidden inside the squares and rectangles my dad had drawn, their heights rising far beyond what my naked eye could see. Even though my dad was not a writer, I now realize how creative he was, how he was able to see beyond the boundaries set by these lines.

By Ivy Dai

Photographs by Eric Sueyoshi

Imagine biting into a light and tender chocolate cake, topped with creamy peanut butter frosting and a teensy peanut butter cup. It’s a cupcake like none other – so fluffy and scrumptious you can eat it in two bites. Maybe three if you pace yourself.

The creation of this particular pint-sized confection started two years ago, when Hyo Kwan bought a box of cupcakes for her coworkers from Sprinkles, a hugely popular cupcake chain based in Los Angeles. She included a personalized card for each person to show her appreciation. This small gift nearly brought people to tears.

“You realize the power of a cupcake,” Kwan says, her eyes lighting up. “You validate their existence and it changes your whole relationship with them.”

After this sugar-inspired experience, Kwan discovered her destiny – to open a cupcake shop. The fact that she never baked a day in her life? No problem. She borrowed a KitchenAid mixer and fired up the oven. Today, the 29-year-old entrepreneur is now the owner of Dots, a small, frosting-pink gem in Pasadena, Calif.

The year-and-a-half-old cupcakery has a retro, space-age feel with an all-white interior, salon-style swivel chairs and a honeycomb cupcake display. Dots offers 22 varieties, including dulce de leche, pina colada, samoa, apple pie and chocobutter, the infamous chocolate cupcake with an explosive peanut butter frosting. Classics like chocolate and vanilla get a gourmet makeover with imported Valrhona chocolate and crushed vanilla beans. The cake is lighter than that of Sprinkles, and there’s just the right amount of frosting.

“You can have two [cupcakes] before you know it,” says customer David Bernstein, a personal trainer who swings by the shop when he’s in need of a “cheat.”

For Kwan, who grew up in Hacienda Heights, Calif., the road to opening a cupcake shop was filled with baking classes and trial and error in the kitchen. She didn’t have any capital saved up, so she opened a dozen credit cards and used them to pay for more than $100,000 in expenses.

“You definitely have a fear that you’re going to be a failure, and you’re not going to succeed,” she says about the store’s opening. “I was always thinking, what’s my back-up plan? But I went into it knowing I was going to work hard and do whatever it takes.”

Then, right before the shop opened, Kwan’s father died of a heart attack. He was only 55. Life is short, she says, and you have to follow your dream. Dots was the American dream for Kwan and her family.

Each day, Kwan gets to work at 4 a.m. She goes through 1,500 pounds of sugar a week and pays more for chocolate than her monthly rent.

“I used to work 9 to 5. I struggled to wake up for every job I’ve had,” says Kwan, who was formerly an events manager for the Los Angeles Dodgers. “Now I’m never late to work.”

The kitchen is the size of a closet, and Kwan and the other bakers stand shoulder to shoulder, filling cupcake tins and frosting and baking nearly 5,000 cupcakes in four hours. Vertical racks and every surface of the shop are covered with cupcakes.

Kwan calls the shop her family, and takes her employees to lunch every day. A work ethic is one thing she can’t teach them, but so far they’ve been very loyal.

“It sounds corny, but they see a dream,” she says. “They see I’m here, and it inspires them to work hard.”

The sweets boutique has recently whipped up the attention of magazines such as Bon Appetit, Bride & Bloom and InStyle for its whimsical cupcake trees, wedding favors and edible letter and flower toppers. For Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O’Connell’s rustic outdoor wedding, the bakery made mini country apple and red velvet cupcakes.

So far, Kwan has made enough profit to open a second shop. Twice the size of the first one, the second Dots shop will be located in the heart of Old Town Pasadena. It will open its doors later this fall.

Many people have asked Kwan to franchise, but she’s said no. Their hearts aren’t into it, she says.

“If you copy my dream, you won’t be successful,” she says. In her free time, Kwan attends food conventions and shops for ribbons. She’s excited about the custom-made cupcake boxes she just ordered, which are covered with polka dots.

“Money is not meaningful to me,” Kwan says. “But it has allowed me the freedom to do what I want to do. It allows me to buy every ribbon I want to buy, and allows me to be creative without having restrictions.”

For this dessert diva, money is just icing on the cake. Or cupcake, that is.

By Julie Ha

In many ways, what Paul “PK” Kim does as a stand-up comedian and the founder and organizer of the annual Kollaboration talent show couldn’t be more different from the work of his pastor father.

But, from another perspective, this Pastor’s Kid, which inspired his nickname PK, has followed in his father’s footsteps not so much lock-step as, well, freestyle. Both pastor and kid move people with a mic. Both have kept the faith through difficult challenges. And their respective movements — one spiritual and the other, social and artistic — started small and have since grown followers by leaps and bounds.

Each in his own unique way has inspired believers.

“My parents are the No. 1 reason why the Kollaboration movement exists,” PK Kim told the audience at the K.W. Lee Center for Leadership banquet in Los Angeles, where he accepted an award in May. “My dad started a church with one family in 1976, the year I was born, and grew it to 3,000 people by 1996.

“My dad is proof that if you have vision, faith and hard work, it will lead to great things.”

Vision, faith and hard work could also describe the path to Kollaboration, which began in 2000 as a modest showcase for Korean American performers who sang, rapped, danced, did stand-up or spoken word in L.A. and has since exploded into a much-anticipated annual Asian Pacific American talent show with venues in Chicago, Atlanta, New York, Washington, D.C., and Toronto, in addition to L.A. Past performers at Kollaboration include Far*East Movement, whose music can be heard on mainstream radio airwaves and feature films, as well as Ben Chung of the JabbaWockeeZ and Mike Song of KABA Modern, who were made instant stars as competitors on MTV’s “Randy Jackson Presents America’s Best Dance Crew.”

Eight years since its debut, Kollaboration’s production values may have gone up, but it remains a nearly all-volunteer labor of love. Kim credits his financial partner of four years, Roy Choi, who turned the organization into a nonprofit, along with loyal (currently unpaid) staffers Rina Lee and Christine Kim for the success of the show, which is also supported by a legion of mostly young but inspired volunteers.

The most recent L.A. Kollaboration in February sold out — some 2,000 seats — two weeks before the show.

“I almost cried,” says Kim, who used to host “Asian Night” at L.A.’s famous Laugh Factory and performs regularly at comedy clubs and colleges. “Usually, I come out on stage [at Kollaboration] and I say, “Asians in the house!’ — and people clap. This time, I said, ‘Asians in the house!’ — and it was like a roar. Yeah, it’s time for us. It’s our time to shine. The talent level is really, really skyrocketing for young Asians in everything.”

Kim talked with KoreAm about being a pastor’s kid, his eight-year journey with Kollaboration, and his personal odyssey as a now-31-year-old married, father-to-be who hasn’t given up his dreams (he wants his own HBO comedy special and for Kollaboration to be at Staples Center within 10 years) even under the weight of age and responsibility.

Were you always drawn to the world of arts and entertainment?

I was always curious about it. I just loved stand-up comedy more than anything else. The idea of making a whole room laugh and crack up, that was amazing to me, like a magic trick. Then I thought, you can make a living doing this?

Four years ago, I was at a friend’s funeral. He was in a small plane accident. His mother was crying over his casket, yelling over and over in Korean, “He never got to do what he wanted to do.” At the time, I was working in a cubicle … I realized life is short. Now, I pretty much go all-out (to pursue my dreams).

What attracts you to stand-up comedy?

Once you get a laugh, it’s the best feeling. It’s almost therapeutic. They say the closest distance between two people is laughter.

Also, being one of only a few Asians growing up, I remember the way to fit in was to be funny. I grew up really skinny, and they would call me “Chopsticks.” I was a preacher’s kid, not allowed to listen to sexual music. … It’s so complex to find your identity when you’re young; it became a big part of my identity to be the clown.

You refer to your pastor father as your hero. How so?

He was not the all-American dad, you know, he never played catch with me. He was so busy growing the church. I think that’s one of the reasons I do comedy. If you look at the sons of comics, their parents weren’t around. At the same time, when I looked at my dad, I saw one person with a microphone could move so many people with a message.

Tell me about how Kollaboration got started.

Back [in 2000] there were a lot of Korean pop shows with laser lights and people dressed in shiny outfits, but they didn’t really represent us, Korean Americans. I wanted a show that showed our identity onstage. Our motto is “empowerment through entertainment.”

In the beginning a lot of people were saying it’s not going to work, even after the first show. It just really motivated me to make it work. I feel like our Kollaboration we built is nonpolitical, it’s just for Asians to express themselves, just keep it real. Whatever is in your heart, pour it out, and also [it helps] break stereotypes. It’s the power of cool. Everywhere you go, “cool” is defined by Hollywood and white people. Asians are never viewed as cool. For us to change that, the only way is to enter mainstream media. So I feel like it’s helping raise the next generation of Asian kids who can be creative.

You’re in your 30s now, married and expecting your first child, so you must feel additional pressure to make a more stable living?

All my focus is on working hard and becoming stable, but also, too, my wife supports my dreams.

Did you ever consider giving up the show?

No way. That’s the good thing about my work. I deejay weddings on the weekend, so it allows me to pursue what I want to during the week.

Kollaboration started as a Korean American talent show, but this was the first year it went pan-Asian. Why did you expand it?

We would go to other cities and even in L.A., there were a lot of Asian people coming out to the show asking, ‘Why is it [just] Korean?’ We started seeing that were so many Asian people feeling the whole movement, too. We kept discussing it and defining what is Korean and defining what is Asian. … As Asian Americans, we really go through the same experience — a hate crime against one Asian is pretty much a hate crime against all of us. We decided to take it to another level and expand.

When you started Kollaboration, you were only 23. Has your perspective on Kollaboration or what you do changed at all?

I never thought it’d be a multi-city show. I thought it would just be in L.A. and [now], friends are directing it in other cities. It’s become my life. It’s pretty much what I wake up for. I’m thankful to God. I really know this is why I’m on earth. My mission in life is to get as many Asians on stage expressing themselves.

By Kai Ma

It’s not entirely clear where Steve Morrison was born. His memories, like those of any adult recalling early childhood, are a hodgepodge of impressions and images; for him, it’s the smell of steamed crab, and sometimes, the taste. But nothing links Morrison to his birth because before the age of 5, his parents abandoned him and his younger brother, leaving them to roam the streets of South Korea’s Kangwon Province in search of food and coins.

“Fortunately, we found something every day,” says Morrison, who was then named Choi Suk Choon. “And once in a while, a lady who sold steamed crab would feed us.”

Eventually, the crab peddler offered more. “But she only had room for one boy, so she decided to take in my younger brother,” Morrison recalls. “The last time I saw him, I looked at him with real envy. And then I was left on the street by myself.”

In 1962, when Morrison was 6, he landed in an orphanage near Seoul that housed roughly 700 homeless youth. The Il San orphanage was built and run by Harry Holt, an American farmer who launched a post-Korean War adoption movement that placed thousands of Korean children in homes overseas.

Morrison lived at the orphanage until he was 13, when a Caucasian Baptist couple in Salt Lake City adopted him. That year, South Korean restrictions would have rendered him ineligible for overseas placement once he turned 14. If it weren’t for his timely adoption, it is likely he would have remained an orphan, with few opportunities for an education or social advancement.

Now 52, Morrison has a shock of black hair, crinkly eyes and exudes a quiet confidence as he reflects on the unique, surprising journey that led him to Norwalk, Calif., where he lives with his wife Jody, three daughters and an adopted son from Korea.

“When I left Korea, I wasn’t scared,” he says. “More than the fear and apprehension, there’s the thrill that something new is waiting for you.”

He met his father, John Morrison, at the airport, carrying only a set of playing cards and his journal, which he continued to write in every night before bed. Morrison still has it, though, he adds wryly, “It’s no Diary of Anne Frank.”

In many ways, Morrison’s journal could give testimony to the virtues of international adoption — how fate, hard work and the right people worked to transform a young orphan into a professional engineer with a rewarding life surrounded by family. Which is why he was alarmed when, in 1996, the South Korean government revised its adoption law — which still stands today — to decrease international adoption by 3 to 5 percent annually, with the long-term goal of phasing out the system by 2015.

For nearly half a century, South Korea was the leading supplier of foreign-born adoptees for developed nations, sending an estimated 160,000 children to the United States, Canada, Western Europe and Australia, according to the South Korean Ministry for Health, Welfare and Family Affairs. In the last 30 years, due to political pressure, grassroots campaigns and media coverage that branded South Korea as a “baby-exporting nation,” efforts have been made to reduce the number of children sent overseas.

Last year, one group of Korean American adoptees petitioned the Ministry to end overseas adoption and, more recently, some high-profile cases have given observers pause. A Dutch diplomat and his wife unleashed global outrage in 2007 when they essentially gave back their 7-year-old Korean daughter, after seven years as her adoptive parents, citing cultural differences and her emotional detachment. In March of this year, Steven Sueppel murdered his wife and four children — all adoptees from Korea, aged 3, 5, 8 and 10 — in Iowa before taking his own life.

In part to provide a more representative view of overseas adoption, Morrison and a contingent of other Korean American adult adoptees visited South Korea for 11 days in May to support domestic adoption within the nation, but also to urge the government to keep intercountry adoption open so long as there are children who need homes. The group, all part of an advocacy group called Adoptees for Children (A4C), timed the trip so they could recognize Korea’s newly designed National Adoption Day on May 11.

“In South Korea there’s been a very deliberate effort to reduce the number of international adoptions in favor of domestic adoptions, something we’ve all applauded and encouraged,” says Susan Soon-keum Cox, a member of A4C. “The problem is the societal acceptance of adoption has not caught up with the desire to have it happen.”

While meeting with Ministry officials, the group proposed special exemptions that would allow Korean Americans to adopt Korean children. “The goal in Korea, as it should be, is to keep Korean children in Korean families,” says Cox, who also serves as vice president of public policy and external affairs at the Oregon-based Holt International Children’s Services, a leading intercountry adoption agency. “As Korean officials make policy, they should take into account that children who are placed into a Korean family in the United States still meet that goal.”

Their recommendations are being considered, yet Morrison was startled to learn from adoption agency representatives that South Korea now plans to end its international system well before 2015. The new policy has not been announced, Morrison says, but South Korea’s new administration, led by President Lee Myung-bak, is rumored to be taking a hard-line, accelerated approach to eliminating the system in three to five years

“Rather than finding better alternatives to help children grow up with families, the Korean government is more occupied with quickly bringing about closure to foreign adoption,” Morrison says. “The driving motivation is to save face because international adoption is a source of national shame; it’s embarrassing to them.”

Though the South Korean government has made attempts to shut down international adoptions for several decades now, Morrison fears what lies ahead. “The one thing [the government] can’t quite overcome,” he says, “is the fact that children need homes.”

***

Nobel Prize winning author Pearl S. Buck, who dubbed the term “Amerasian,” inspired Americans to open their homes to foreign children when she founded the Welcome House in 1949, an agency for interracial orphans that has placed more than 7,000 adoptions throughout the world. Yet the international adoption boom out of South Korea is most often attributed to Harry Holt and his wife Bertha.

The Holts, a Christian couple from Oregon, adopted eight biracial Korean orphans in 1955, and a year later, established an adoption program in Korea that became officially known as Holt Children’s Services of Korea in the late 1970s. Today, it works in partnership with the Holt International adoption agency in the U.S.

Though Holt rescued many orphans, the large-scale transracial adoption movement he pioneered has a mixed legacy. Due to the sheer numbers of Korean children placed overseas — often in Christian and Caucasian families — critics began to argue that what started as a wartime humanitarian effort was now spiraling out of control.

In 1973, the Pyongyang Times, a North Korean newspaper, issued a statement against South Korea’s adoption policy: “The traitors of South Korea, old hands at treacheries, are selling thousands, tens of thousands of children going ragged and hungry to foreign marauders under the name of ‘adopted children.’”

More than three decades after the Korean War, children continued to leave their birth country in droves; in 1985 alone, 8,837 Koreans children were sent overseas. Then in 1988, South Korea’s international adoption industry faced global scrutiny, due in part to the exposure procured by hosting the 1988 Olympic Games in Seoul. Media outlets, including NBC and the New York Times covered the adoption phenomenon, citing babies as South Korea’s primary export commodity. In January 1988, the Progressive published an article titled, “Babies for Sale: South Koreans Make Them, Americans Buy Them.”

The headlines disgraced the South Korean government, and protests ensued. But the main reason for the public outcry, Morrison says, was because the South Korean nation was modernizing rapidly and no longer suffering from the post-war displacement and poverty that required foreigners to adopt their youth in the first place.

“What they didn’t realize is that all of this has less to do with money, but mindset,” he says.

As a bloodline-based society with Confucian roots, South Korea lacks a cultural tradition of domestic adoption. Social stigma and shame are attached to infertile couples, divorcees, unwed mothers and homeless children, causing the cultural bias against domestic adoption to be so severe that in many cases, not even the child is aware of his or her adoption.

In 1999, Morrison founded Mission to Promote Adoption (MPAK), an American and South Korean organization committed to creating a pro-adoption culture among Korean families, as well as removing the stigma associated with homeless children and adoptees. For children without a birth or adoptive family within the country, the organization advocates that international adoption should be given priority over long-term foster care.

MPAK has helped solidify what Morrison calls the “transparent adoption movement” in South Korea. (“Transparent adoption” describes a form of adoption that is not practiced in secret.) In 2000, Morrison urged Yun Hee Han, current MPAK Korea president, to broadcast her experience adopting two boys on national television, after which she was inundated with phone calls from couples that wanted to adopt.

“By sharing her beautiful adoption story, it opened up opportunities for many children to have homes of their own,” says Morrison. “That message had never been conveyed in Korea before.”

That year, MPAK families were featured more than 40 times on major Korean networks. The MPAK exposure campaign led to transparent adoptions by 1,000 Korean families and 70 Korean American families, and spurred the creation of 18 regional MPAK chapters in South Korea and four in the United States.

Then in 2007, international adoption out of South Korea reached a crossroads, when domestic placements exceeded international adoptions for the first time. Out of the 2,652 children adopted last year, 52 percent went to Korean homes, according to figures released last month by the Korea National Statistical Office. But according to news reports, the increase is largely the result of new South Korean policies that prioritize placing children with Korean families before sending them overseas, and less to do with the cultural acceptance of domestic adoption.

***

Last April, Adoptee Solidarity Korea (ASK), an organization for adult adoptees, submitted a petition that called for the closure of international adoption. The petition, which is under preliminary review by the Ministry, also urged the development of social welfare structures that would enable Korean families to stay intact.

Su-Yoon Ko, a member of ASK, wrote the petition with other Korean American adoptees living in Seoul who promote alternatives to sending children overseas. Ko believes other programs, including domestic placements and foster care, must first advance before international adoption is shut down, but she is critical of why the 50-year practice is often considered “South Korea’s only alternative.”

“The intercountry adoption program is so systematic — a very well oiled machine that is often seen as ‘the Cadillac of adoption programs,’” says Ko. “What started out as a temporary solution for mixed-raced orphans born during the war has become South Korea’s social welfare system, and they depend on it now. It gets rid of unwanted babies, it solves the problem of single mothers, and it saves the government money it would otherwise have to use to develop its own system. If it’s not broken, why fix it, right?”

Ko moved to Seoul in 2002 after growing up with her adoptive Caucasian family in Minnesota. She is part of the rising number of adult adoptees who have returned to South Korea to seek answers about their country of origin.

By virtue of being a Korean adoptee, Ko inherited the distinct experience of being ethnically Korean without a Korean family, yet not being viewed as “American” in the sense of being Caucasian, despite growing up in a Euro-American household. “Questions about our birth country are always in the back of our heads,” says Ko. “Growing up in mostly white environments and looking completely different, we were told we were Korean, but had no context to put that in. What does it mean to be Korean? We have no idea.”

International adoption has been described by demographers as “the quiet migration.” Among the 2 million Koreans currently living in the United States, 110,000 are believed to have emigrated between 1953 and 2007 as adoptee children. South Koreans represent the largest group of American foreign-born adoptee children, according to the 2000 U.S. Census, and in 2004, the Census reported that South Korea supplied nearly 24 percent of the foreign-born adoptee population, the highest from any country.

Domestic adoptions are steadily increasing, but many in the adoption field insist that this development will only survive if met with proper social welfare systems, and a broader, collective acceptance of what constitutes a family. Similarly in the United States, it was not until the women’s movement in the 1970s, that single American women felt empowered to raise children without a father, rather than give them up for adoption.

These cultural shifts are now evident in South Korea, and will ultimately shape the future of international adoption; infertility and a birth rate that is among the lowest in the world have decreased the number of children born overall, and with the rise of divorce comes the upsurge of single parents. The recent “Miss Mom” phenomenon, which echoes the “Single Mothers By Choice” movement in the United States, suggests that more South Korean women are challenging the stigmas against non-traditional families by choosing to raise a child without a spouse or through artificial insemination.

“International adoption is definitely entangled with women’s rights,” says Hollee McGinnis, policy director of the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute, a national policy think tank and educational organization that examines adoption. “If you improve the situation for families and for mothers in particular, you will see a change in terms of international adoption.”

But South Korea, despite its status as the world’s 13th-largest economy, has only recently provided financial support for single unwed mothers, and before two years ago, “there had been no support to help or encourage a single mother to raise her child,” says McGinnis, who is also founder of Also-Known-As, a non-profit adult intercountry adoptee organization. “Where does the money go in Korea’s economy? Is a big bulk of money going to social welfare services? No. Back in the 1970s, if Korea put money where they put their policy about stopping international adoption, and began building social services for domestic families, I think Korea would be in a very different place right now.”

McGinnis was adopted in 1975 at the age of 3. She grew up in the suburbs of New York City as the only Korean in a family of Caucasian parents, and their two biological children. In college, she began exploring what it meant to “fit in as an American with a Korean face, and an Irish dad and a blonde-haired mom,” she says. At the age of 24, she went to Korea and reunited with her birth parents, and others relatives from the paternal side of her family.

More Korean adoptees are searching for, and finding their biological parents, yet McGinnis’ reunion was particularly exceptional: her birth family made the initial contact. When she was starting high school, her paternal grandfather wrote to her American parents, who chose to show their daughter the letter several years later, when she was 19.

“I was utterly surprised,” she recalls. “One hundred percent of adoptees think about the people that gave birth to them. But how do you mourn someone you don’t remember? For the majority of us, birth parents are like figments of our imaginations.”

McGinnis has now been in touch with her birth family for 12 years. She lives in New York City with her husband, and their infant son. She wants her son to have a relationship with his Korean relatives, but admits to the obstacles of straddling two families, especially given the language barrier and the distance that separates them. “It’s hard to build a relationship on that,” she says. “I’m very glad I have it, but it adds a level of complexity that I sometimes wish I didn’t have.”

Discourse surrounding South Korea’s international adoption policy usually involves a triangular tug-of-war between lobbyists, adoption agencies and advocacy groups, but what lies at the center are children in need of homes. Despite the varying and contradicting perspectives, all agree that the welfare of the child must take precedence. For this reason, says McGinnis, she doesn’t want to see an end to international adoption, but believes it could happen in the near future.

“Korea could absolutely close its doors, and it’s happened in other countries with the swipe of a pen,” she says.

At the same time, there is an evident shift in the prevalence of international adoption — and not just in South Korea. After the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami displaced thousands, the response of most major Western nations was that the children were not to be sent abroad. “In the past five years, there has been a changing tide about thinking critically about when international adoption is appropriate,” says McGinnis. “Many countries now are pulling back their practices, so what we’re seeing right now in Korea is indicative of broader changes.”

“Yet international adoption is an unfortunate necessity,” she adds. “In an ideal world, every child is loved and wanted, but that’s just not the reality. That’s not to say that kids that are adopted aren’t wanted, but what we don’t like to acknowledge is that adoption happens because something couldn’t happen.”

***

In his early 20s, Morrison returned to South Korea for the first time since his adoption, and visited the gravesite of Harry Holt, who suffered a fatal heart attack in 1964.

“It was like meeting an old friend,” he says. “Mr. Holt will always be, in my mind, the man who saved my life.”

When he was buried atop a hill in Il San, 59 steps were constructed leading up to his grave to reflect the age at his death. ““I will never forget that day,” says Morrison, who was 8 when Holt passed. “It rained, and children were hunched over crying and screaming, some clinging to his casket as it lowered.”

When he first met Holt, Morrison admits he was terrified. “He was a scary-looking guy with huge bushy eyebrows.” But Holt’s daunting visage quickly evaporated with a smile, and Morrison instantly regarded the elder as a grandfather figure. “I would see Mr. Holt coming down the hill and he would kneel and open up his arms and I would come to him. He made himself available to all the children, and I truly sensed that he loved us.”

During his Korea trip last month, Morrison returned to the orphanage, which is now a 60-acre center accommodating more than 300 mentally and physically disabled residents. There, he saw a friend he spent his childhood with, playing cards and marbles. The friend, now 52 years old, was born with cerebral palsy and has lived at the orphanage his entire life.

Reunions such as these are bittersweet for Morrison. “Why was I able to leave?” he asks. “Why not him? I felt ashamed that I was chosen to be loved by a great family, yet here he was in his wheelchair, still being cared for by the orphanage.”

“Suk Choon,” the friend said to Morrison, addressing him by his birth name, “I am happy that you have a good life.”

When comparing his life to that of his friend, Morrison believes that international adoption is less a debate and more of an endangered necessity. And while much has changed over the course of South Korea’s history of international adoption, all of which may come to an end as early as 2011, what Morrison saw in his friend still bore resemblance to what Holt saw on the streets of South Korea more than 50 years ago. Which is why he believes he is one of the few Korean American adoptees still working in the spirit of Holt, even as he promotes a culture that will no longer depend on what Holt began.

“The reasons for why children are abandoned have changed, but what has remained the same is that they need and deserve homes,” Morrison says. “So what would be the only logical reason for closure of international adoption? When there are no more children to be sent abroad.”

Story and photographs by David Yi

Su Jung Pae doesn’t like her weight these days. After a few of her mother’s choice comments, the 23-year-old decided to cut out just about every carbohydrate from her diet, including her favorite dish, jajangmyun.

“My mum is so Korean,” she says. “She tells me every time she sees me that I’m getting fatter.”

So today at her favorite Chinese-Korean restaurant in New Malden, while others in her party happily slurp their noodles heavily saturated in black bean sauce, she apathetically scoops a bland spoonful of sundubu into her mouth, sans the rice.

Just outside, as the sun unabashedly shines its rays onto the world below, a 30-something woman sits on a bench, delicately eating her kimbap while reading The Korea Times. A group of girls scurry out of a PC bang while speaking loudly in Korean about what they saw on the hit MBC TV show “Moo Han Do Jeon.” Housewives carrying heavy bags hurriedly walk home from shopping at Seoul Plaza to begin preparing lunch as the Friday afternoon hustle begins.

It’s just another spring day in a neighborhood where the street is bustling with an eclectic mix of hair salons, noraebangs and restaurants.

This is London.

The Korean Embassy estimates that there are now more than 24,000 Koreans residing in the U.K., about 21,000 who live in London. Of the latter number, 8,000 live in the town New Malden. Known as London’s Koreatown, it is home to the largest Korean community in all of Europe. While it’s nowhere as massive as the Koreatowns of Los Angeles or Flushing — not even Chicago or Atlanta — it’s a place where Korean culture is alive and flourishing.

Pae’s parents moved to London in 1983, two years before she was born, and settled in New Malden. Back then, New Malden was hardly a Korean community. When Pae was younger, she only knew of one or two Korean stores. It was not until the mid-90s that New Malden became the Korean hub that it is today.

James Grayson, a professor specializing in Korean Studies at the University of Sheffield, says most of the Korean population arrived in New Malden during the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, and that immigrants are continuing to settle in droves. “It’s almost like Korean immigration in the United States during the 1960s,” Grayson says. “It’s something to look out for.”

No one quite knows for sure why Koreans settled in New Malden, which many view as a unique, if not random city to build an immigrant community around. One theory is that New Malden housing was cheaper than neighboring Wimbledon, where highly-esteemed Korean ambassadors once lived. Another theory is that the community used to be home to many Japanese immigrants, which made the area more comforting to first-time Korean immigrants who knew nothing about London. Yet a third theory is that the area was first settled by two prominent Koreans who set up a business, and the word quickly spread around London that the area was a hotspot for immigration.

Whatever the reason, Koreans are here to stay. I spent a day in New Malden to find out what life is like in the U.K. Here’s what I discovered:

Korean Brits …

- Come for schooling

With the American dollar dwindling and the U.K. more lenient about handing out visas to students than the U.S. (though it’s still a strenuous process), London has become a practical destination for immigrants to study English. A study conducted by Think London, London’s official foreign direct investment agency, found that South Korea is the fourth most important international student market for London’s higher education. The study also found that this trend of Koreans coming into London is growing, with a nearly 80-percent increase in the number of South Korean students in the past seven years.

One such student is He Kyoung Lee, 32, who initially wanted to study in the United States (“Everyone wants to go to the U.S.”), but ultimately chose London because of its easier visa application process. Lee now studies English at Hampton University. “I’m glad I came. I do like it here because there is a Korean community.”

- Experience ignorance

The Korean Cultural Centre, located in the heart of central London, opened in February after the South Korean government found that only 2 percent of those surveyed in London knew about Korean culture. The center was created to promote understanding between Korea and the U.K. through cultural and educational activities. However, though the center has been met with some success, Asian culture in general is still more foreign to residents of the U.K. than most other cultures, and ignorance is still very alive and present.

“Just a few minutes ago on the bus, someone yelled at me for being Chinese,” says Ahrem Park, a 1.5-generation Korean British who graduated from the University of College London. “I mean, yeah, he was drunk, but it still shows the backwards mentality of people.”

Sini Kye, who has lived in London since 1999, says that that while he has experienced a handful of racist situations, things have gotten better over the years. “Now that they see more Asian faces, we’re more accepted,” says Kye, 22. “Everyone is so used to so many different people, people just embrace it more than anything.”

- Stick with other Asians

Kye says that a lot of cultural misunderstandings that take place between the English and Asians come from the fact that both groups rarely mingle together. “Asians just naturally exclude themselves from going to places where there aren’t more Asians,” he said. “If the place isn’t Asian enough and more of a British style, it can get quite boring.”

So instead of going to a pub, or English bar, Kye hangs out at Korean bars and noraebangs throughout Central London, like Korean hotspot BTR (Be The Reds.) The place is one of the most popular in Central London, attracting many college-aged Koreans.

Park, who is also a 1.5-generation Korean, agrees that Koreans tend to stick with Koreans or other Asians. “Being with Koreans is just more fun,” Park says. “I don’t really have fun with English people.”

- Go to church

Most Koreans in London are Protestant Christian. Churches in the U.S. have historically been places where Korean immigrants went to for social support and it’s no different in London. There are around 30 Korean churches scattered throughout the greater London area, from Central London to Kingston. Services are held strictly in Korean, unlike in the States where there are English ministries. Even the university-aged fellowships hold services in the native tongue.

King’s Cross Church, one of the first Korean churches in London, formed on December 21, 1980. Today, the church has more than 200 members, a strong youth group and a university-aged fellowship.

“A lot of Korean Christians in London speak Korean fluently because of church,” says Soyang Kim, 19, a second-generation Korean British. “I think [church] is a great way to meet other Koreans and keep in touch with my Korean side.”

- Deal with issues of identity

Pae also attends King’s Cross Church and feels that Korean is the language of choice because Korean British still have close attachments to their cultural roots. “When I think of myself, I do think of myself as more Korean than British, even if I was born here,” she says. “I’m a Korean living in England.”

But like many who have close ties to both their ethnicity and nationality, it’s sometimes difficult for Pae to strike a perfect balance between the two and fit in. Much of the time, Pae feels she is too Korean for the English, or too English for a lot of Koreans. Though most of her friends are Korean, it’s difficult to get close to those who cannot speak English fluently.

“I mean, I can be conversational in Korean, but getting past that and getting deeper is what’s difficult for me,” she says.

What’s difficult for Pae today is finishing her pot of sundubu, where the rice sits alone in its silver bowl, growing colder by the minute. So when I ask her for her rice to mix in with the bean sauce left from the jajangmeon, she eagerly hands it to me.

“Oh, I already feel a connection with you,” she says, smiling. “I do that too. Well, whenever I eat jajangmeon.”

She tells me that she’s on her way to work at an after-school Korean hakwon (English school), and when I thank her for her time, she smiles, and quickly says, “That’s all right.”

“In London, ‘you’re welcome’ is too formal and awkward,” she explains. After a few more explanations, she asks me a simple question that I cannot refuse.

“Where’s about you off to,” she asks mischievously. “Want to get some ice cream?”

It’s at this moment that I realize that though she may work at a Korean hakwon, have a mother who epitomizes the nagging Korean mother, live in London’s Koreatown and proclaim herself to be very Korean, right now, it’s clear to me that she’s so British.

A fact that her British accented Korean, H&M shirt, and subtle sarcasm cannot deny.

Hed: Where to eat

Photo: F-London-5-5-wheretoeat.jpg

- Jin

Jin is known throughout London as one of the most delicious restaurants in town. Make sure to save up, as meals at this Soho spot are very pricey. 020 7734 0908.

- Koba

Locals rave about Koba, a chic restaurant off of the Tottenham Court Road tube that serves intriguing dishes like yook hwei (thinly sliced raw beef served with sliced pears). Also try the bulgogi jeongol, which comes out on a hot plate. www.koba-london.com, 020 7580 8825.

- Asadal

London’s (supposedly) first Korean restaurant now has two branches. The prices are best around lunchtime. Try the ddeok galbi and any of the soups. www.asadal.co.uk.

- SeOUL Bakery

Owner Ho Ja Soh (“Ho Ho” to locals) makes some of the best baked treats around. Her special, sweet potato cake, is the most popular item in the store. The cake is sweet, but not overbearing. 077 6327 8681.

- You Me

You Mi Hwae Gwan may have the best Chinese-Korean food in all of London. The Jajangmyeon and jjambbong are the restaurant’s most famous dishes and rightfully so. Both completely hit the spot. 020 8715 1079.

Hed: Where to hang

Photo: F-London-20-wheretohang.jpg

- Maru Coffee Shop

This PC bang is hidden above Seoul Plaza in New Malden. You’ll find mostly high school crowds W.O.W.-ing out against each other. The place also has a manhwa collection where locals come and read comic books by the hour.

- BTR (Be The Reds)

Ever since the 2002 World Cup, BTR has become the hangout spot for college-aged Korean Brits. It’s got everything from a PC Bang to a noraebang to a small bar. But there seems to be a cut-off age. Said an older customer: “The kids were singing [songs by] Dong Bang Shin Gi. That alone told me it was time to leave.” 020 7209 0984.

- Han Kang Restaurant

A Korean bar of sorts, this is the new hangout spot for those who feel they have outgrown BTR. The place has a restaurant and noraebang downstairs and serves good Korean food like marinated meats. 0871 332 8205.

Hed: Where to grocery shop

Photo: F-London-11-wheretoshop.jpg

- Seoul Plaza

Fully stocked with all your Korean food needs and offers fresh fruits and vegetables. Check out the upstairs offerings, which include a PC bang, manhwa bang and café. www.koreafoods.co.uk.

- Korea Foods

Possibly the biggest Korean store in all of London, Korea Foods is owned by the same owners of Seoul Plaza. It’s well-stocked with Korean, Chinese and Japanese goods. Check out the fresh fish market inside. www.koreafoods.co.uk, 020 8949 2238.

- Centrepoint Food Store

If you’re in Central London, check out one of the only Korean stores, hidden away next to Tottenham Court Road station. The place is well stocked and has a restaurant upstairs. www.cpfs.co.uk, 020 7836 9860.

- Hana Super

Located next to Goodge Street, this small market has good service and fresh products. 020 7636 4118.

Don’t Miss The Korean Cultural Centre UK

Opened in February, the Korean Cultural Centre opened for the purpose of spreading modern Korean culture. With a museum exhibit upstairs displaying modern Korean art, a movie room downstairs with a giant collection of Korean films and a small library, the center aims to further spread hallyu, or the Korean Wave. Two movies are shown during the first and third weeks of every month. Bonus: Admission and WiFi are free. www.london.korean-culture.org, 020 7004 2600.

Spotlight On … Goong

Photo: F-London-15-Goong.jpg

The slogan for the restaurant is “haengbokhan babsang,” which translates to “a happy food table.” And with hundreds of customers eagerly coming each week, the slogan appears to be true.

Goong, which means palace, is fairly new to New Malden, having opened last October. The restaurant serves up classic Korean dishes like ddeok galbi and bulgogi, along with freshly made sides such as crisp kimchi, potato salad and samosas.

Owners Jae Myong Choi, 48, and his wife, Sun Lan Joo, 48, put every effort into their service, and want customers to feel like they’re home. “We chose the slogan because we really do want to make people happy,” Choi says. “Really, a smile is all we could ask for.”

Choi, also a full-time pastor, says he opened the restaurant because of his wife’s love for cooking: “I really believed in her cooking. I mean, it’s just delicious.”

People come back for the service. Choi is a natural charmer, and seems to know every customer by name. With a friendly smile, he seems to draw people in through his humor and natural charisma.

“This was my first time eating Korean food,” says Kleopatra Klauss, a student at the London School of Economics. “And it was so, so good. I’m excited to be a regular.”

At this palace, which is more like a home, the family keeps getting bigger and bigger.

No evidence North Korean leader is dead http://t.co/Wl42cfFN via @CNN

RT @originalspin: Jeremy 10 pts 3 asts. Kobe 6pts 0 asts. Maybe Kobe knows who @JLin7 is now? #saymyname #linsanity

Video Roundup: Jeremy Lin Rap, Hoekstra Ad Parodied, Daniel Radcliffe Speaks Korean http://t.co/oZy9okXn

Believing the Unbelievable: Why Kim Jong Un Death Rumors Won't Die - The Atlantic http://t.co/u3ZxS2bK via @AddThis

Three S. Korean women kidnapped in Egypt's Sinai - Yahoo! News http://t.co/BbJgk4tJ via @YahooNews