By Ellis Song

Photographs by Eric Sueyoshi

When Masako Mochizuki married her husband, they had already planned on buying a home for themselves. But they were busy people. It’s not that they couldn’t afford a house. They just couldn’t afford the time to go look for one. So the year after they wed, they settled in an apartment they had found on Oxford Avenue in Los Angeles Koreatown. It was 1973.

Mochizuki, a former aspiring actress, had planted rose bushes when she first moved into that apartment, and the flowers have always provided her with joy.

“When we first moved in, there were rows of azaleas and it was pretty nice when they bloomed, but later on the kids living in the apartment got careless and put their bicycles on top of the azaleas and destroyed them,” says Mochizuki, who is now a 73-year-old widow. “I decided I’m going to plant roses, because with the thorns, no one’s going to step on them and ruin them.”

She planted five bushes, which still remain alive today.

As for her neighborhood, it wasn’t “Koreatown” back in the 1970s, Mochizuki says. But that would quickly change. Korean and Central American immigrants replaced the white community, and small businesses turned the area into an entrepreneurial hub.

But the biggest change to her immediate surroundings came when a Ralphs supermarket was transformed into a Korean church. “I couldn’t imagine converting a market into a church, but I didn’t think anything of it,” says Mochizuki.

Today, Oriental Mission Church’s brick red building is an imposing fixture that sits on the major thoroughfare of Western Avenue in Koreatown, and occupies nearly half of the block that it sits on. With its elliptical supermarket-esque sign and cavalry of church vans, the church can’t help but be noticed.

In recent years, the church has attempted to stretch its legs even further, and in an ambitious plan for expansion, bought Mochizuki’s apartment and those around her. Tenants from a number of the complexes were thereby pressured to vacate, so that the church could construct a parking lot for the OMC’s huge congregation, which boasts up to 4,000 members.

According to the Koreatown Immigrant Workers Alliance, a nonprofit organization, the church has evicted and vacated 43 families since last year.

But, “to my knowledge, no one was forced out,” counters Matthew Kim, an associate pastor at OMC. Kim says the church did everything they could to accommodate the tenants. “Our church did a lot to help the residents. I believe we paid nearly $50,000 in relocation fees—$2,000 to $3,000 per family.”

Families that did not want to haggle with the church accepted a relocation fee and moved. The only one who refused to leave was Mochizuki. KIWA rallied around her, and adopted the rose as a symbol of her perseverance. In February, the organization planted 28 rose bushes along Oxford Avenue in support of Mochizuki’s struggle.

In March, after the OMC demolished one of the apartment complexes, the church was met with protests and human barricades by the members of KIWA. “The issue is that these are rent-controlled apartments,” says Danny Park, KIWA’s executive director. These are apartments built before 1976 that are controlled by different laws to prevent rent from being raised more than the Consumer Price Index, he explains. “Rent-controlled apartments are considered something that’s affordable to low-income families.”

While KIWA recognizes that the church did not break any laws and went through all of the necessary legal steps, Park believes that the church is severly disrupting the lives of entire families, for a parking lot that would be used only a few hours a week.

“We feel that a church has a much higher moral responsibility in serving the community,” says Park. “We’re not questioning whether they violated their legal responsibility, but we’ve questioned their responsibility to the community that they serve and operate in. A church that powerful should be building more affordable housing for the needy, but in this case, they’re knocking them down.”

Pastor Kim, however, believes that the church made significant efforts to fulfill this “moral obligation.” He adds he doesn’t believe that the parking lot will be permanent. “The initial plan was for the parking lot, but the long-term plan is to build some kind of community center,” he says.

Kim also states that the new parking lot addresses a safety issue for the congregation as well. “We have parents with young children who have to park far away,” said Kim.  “Sometimes, these kids run back and forth across the streets to get to their car. So, there is a concern for safety.”

Despite community efforts to keep Mochizuki in her apartment, this spring, she could not hold out any longer. She eventually struck a deal with OMC and agreed to vacate her apartment. Her new place, however, is across the street and also owned by the church. With the help of KIWA, she negotiated with OMC a lease agreement that has her paying the same amount as before. But she still considers her old home, her home. “I still do feel comfortable there,” says Mochizuki.

For more than three decades, Mochizuki lived in her original apartment, which is located behind the church, separated by an alleyway. During that span of time, she grew attached to the neighborhood, her space and the rose bushes she’d planted in front of her door. But that attachment has been severed.

Mochizuki is still in the process of moving her belongings out from her old place into her new one. She has high blood pressure and a noticeable limp, the result of a stroke she suffered in 1999. So, walking up the stairs to her new apartment is difficult. The constant tug-of-war with the church and uncertainty of her living situation have deprived her of sleep, too. Her home has always provided her security, peace of mind and joy, but it’s all been taken away from her.

“I can’t see my flowers anymore,” says Mochizuki. “Now, if I open the window, all I have to see is a cement wall and painted bricks. In the dark, I used to be able to find my way, but now I will have to memorize everything all over again. In my old age, it’s become very stressful and really tiring.”

Join us for a live chat with Justin Chon at 9 p.m. PST on Tuesday, Nov. 17. He’ll talk about New Moon and even sing us a couple songs. You won’t want to miss it.

Photo by Russell Baer

By Kai Ma

When Justin Chon isn’t shooting the Twilight series in Vancouver, he’s splitting his time between Los Angeles and Irvine, living the single life and memorizing lines as one of the only young Korean actors in Hollywood (getting work, that is). The 28-year-old USC grad, most known for his role as the Twilight series’ Eric Yorkie, a non-bloodsucking classmate of the main character, Bella Swan, also appeared in Nickelodeon’s Just Jordon and the film Crossing Over, starring Harrison Ford. As America anticipates this month’s release of The Twilight Saga: New Moon, which opens on the 20th, Chon chats with KoreAm about the sequel, die-hard fans, and why he’s so happy to be working in America.

How was the set for New Moon different from the first film’s?
[New Moon’s director] Chris Weitz is very calm; his sets are quiet. Catherine Hardwicke, [who directed the first film], her sets are more of a circus; everyone’s screaming and running around. Catherine likes to be in it. Chris just slowly walks up to you and says, “Yeah, I like that.”

Does the cast get along?
Yeah, it’s fun. Everyone is civil and friends. It’s like college.

Are the fans truly obsessed?
Yes. If you go out with Robert [Pattinson] or Kristen [Stewart], it’s a done deal; you’re not going to be eating dinner.

Do girls run up to you and scream your character’s name?
They do, actually. I was just in Busan for the film festival, and on the red carpet, all these girls were screaming, “ERIC! ERIC!” And I kept screaming back, “My name is JUSTIN! No, JUSTIN.”

How was the Busan International Film Festival?
They invited me and Jamie Chung as “special guests.” But there was nothing special about it. They were so disorganized. The first day, I was told I had to come to [this event]. They didn’t tell me what the hell was going on. I had to put on these white gloves, push this button, and all of a sudden, fireworks came up and I almost fell on my ass. To this day, I don’t know what that was.

That sounds frustrating.
Let’s just say I’m glad I work in America.

I’m sure the parties made it worth it!
We partied. You just eat a bunch of seafood and drink a sh-tload of soju. There was this one club, with techno music and all these lasers. And you’re talking to someone and it’s like, ‘Hey, there’s a green beam on your face.’

How’s the club scene in Korea?
Going out a lot was fun when I was 19 or 20. Now that I’m older, the girls are really young. It’s like, you’re not even a human being. You’re a piece of flesh.

Career-wise, what’s in store for the future?
I finished the third Twilight, meaning I’ve played the same character for two-and-a-half years. It’s a weight off my shoulders. I was anti-TV after I got off Nickelodeon…but there are more roles in television now. Cool stuff, like John Cho in FlashForward and Tim Kang in The Mentalist. I’m ready to explore and really expand my horizons.

By Jimmy Lee

Last month, the much-hyped Gustavo Dudamel began his tenure as the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s music director, at the ripe age of 28, to the roar of wowed audiences. Along with the buzz of the Dude’s debut, heard within the majestic confines of the Walt Disney Concert Hall during the Venezuelan conductor’s premiere weekend program were the haunting, ethereal tones emanating from a Chinese mouth organ called a sheng. The ovations earned over these three performances may have been for superstar Dudamel and sheng virtuoso Wu Wei, but the notes they brought to life belonged exclusively to Unsuk Chin.

The South Korean-born composer’s concerto for sheng and orchestra, titled Su, comprised the entire first half of the concert. “[Dudamel] told me he likes my piece very much, so I was very pleased,” said Chin, 48.

The reception Chin got from another classical music luminary was far different some 24 years earlier. After studying composition at Seoul National University and winning international contests, she earned a grant to study in Germany in 1985, with György Ligeti. The renowned Austrian composer told her, in effect, to throw away her award-winning pieces. “He destroyed everything,” said Chin. “It was a very tough time. I learned, and I’m still learning, from his lessons.”

Like Ligeti, she has won the prestigious Grawemeyer Award, and her compositions—which have been described as modern, yet lyrical—have been performed in Europe, Asia and North America. Her opera Alice in Wonderland, which premiered in Munich in 2007, was named “World Premiere of the Year” by a group of opera critics. Chin sat down with KoreAm the day before Su made its U.S. premiere Oct. 9 to talk about her path to the world stage.

What’s it like for you to listen to the orchestra as it rehearses your composition for its premiere?
It’s a very strange feeling. You wrote the score, but you haven’t heard the sounds. And when you hear it the first time, the feeling is amazing. But at the same time, it’s very strange, as if you were standing naked somewhere. And sometimes it’s very tough, if things don’t work as you would want.

What drew you to music?
I wanted to become a pianist when I was a child. Piano playing for me was very natural. My father was a Presbyterian minister, so he taught me a little bit, but just a little bit. And we were in Korea in the ’60s, so we were all very poor, and my parents had no possibility to support me. So I learned piano playing myself. And when I was 13, I decided to become a composer because I thought it would be cheaper than being a pianist (laughs).

That’s a big leap to make for a 13-year-old, going from performing to thinking about putting notes to paper. At that time I didn’t compose any pieces; I just heard a lot of music and learned musical theory. My first piece, I wrote at [Seoul National University], very late.

If you had the choice, would you have stuck with the piano?
Yeah. I feel if I were a pianist, maybe I would be happier (laughs). Being a composer, it is still for me a second choice.

Do you compose on a piano?
No, never. Just on paper.

What inspires you now?
Everything. I hear a lot of music; new music and traditional music from different countries.

All your earlier compositions were based on Western musical traditions. What led you to choose the sheng for a new concerto?
In Korea, we also have a sheng, the saenghwang. It is the only instrument from traditional music that I admire; I love this instrument. I heard the sound when I was a child, and I always dreamed of composing a piece for this instrument. Then several years ago, I met [Wu Wei] in Berlin.

The first time I heard his playing, I was just shocked, it was so amazing. Immediately, for him I composed this piece. It’s the first piece in my work list for a non-European instrument. Now I’ll slowly start to think about composing more pieces for Korean traditional instruments. But I need a lot of time.

Amy and her daughter Aubrey, 2008.

By Amy Anderson

My daughter is 2 and she is the most amazing human being on the planet. Sure, I’m a little biased, but she is pretty awesome. I have been blessed with a healthy, beautiful and intelligent child. I love her more and more each day. And while all mothers feel a special bond with their children, I should take a moment to mention that my daughter is the only blood relative I have ever known.

All that I know about the beginning of my life was that I was abandoned at the Yongsan train station in Seoul on September 2, 1972. I was estimated to be only a day old. After a passerby found me and took me to the police, I was adopted by my American family through Holt, an international agency known as the pioneer of overseas Korean adoption. No information about my Korean birth family has ever surfaced. The love for my adoptive family is sincere and they are indeed my “real” family, but as you can imagine, the special bond I have with my daughter is undeniably visceral.

I cannot fathom living without her.

That said, raising a child is tough. And sometimes, I feel really alone. And it’s because I’m a standup comedian who spends a lot of time traveling, working late hours, and managing an unpredictable schedule. It’s because I’m a single mom.

In my case, I have shared custody of my daughter with her father, which offers some relief, but it also presents a whole bevy of communication challenges that, at times, make the situation feel more stressful. And I’m not saying that raising children within a marriage is easy either, but at the end of a difficult day, I have to believe there is some peace in knowing you have another person in your corner to help pay the bills or lend an extra set of hands. (Anyone who has gone to Costco alone with an infant knows what I’m talking about.)

Just a few short years ago, as I was living my dream of being a comedian and actress in Hollywood, having a baby was not a planned event for my 34th year. Splitting with her father when she was an infant was also unplanned, but I decided to roll with the punches.

The struggle to establish a new life for my daughter made 2008 the most difficult year of my life. It took me months to get us on our feet and just now, I feel I have finally hit my stride. My daughter is thriving, my career is moving forward faster than ever before, and I have a wonderful new boyfriend. At 37, I actually have a life again that I really love.

Last month, just when I was thinking single motherhood was not such a bad gig after all, a friend forwarded an article to me from the New York Times, titled “Group Resists Korean Stigma for Unwed Mothers.” This article, written by Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter Choe Sang-hun, details a small group of Korean mothers who are banding together to protect their rights in a country that not only discourages, but also shuns, single moms.

Abortion is widely used in Korea as a way to avoid the shameful and ostracizing title of “unwed mother.” For the women who simply cannot terminate their pregnancies, the second most popular option is relinquishing the child for adoption—usually overseas. These birth mothers often lose all contact with their children.

Deception is rife in Korean adoption due to societal pressures and while adoption files are more accurate than they were in the past, untruths of orphanages burning down, names being concealed, identities being switched, and more, are all too common. The few women who choose the unpopular option of raising their children as single parents risk a life of poverty and social ostracism—for themselves and their children. These mothers are trapped in a no-win situation in a culture that doesn’t value them as the heroes that they are.

Korean women deserve the right to raise their own biological children with dignity and respect. Married or not.

While some American women, known as “single mothers by choice,” are now opting to bear and raise children alone (the clock is a-tickin’, Mr. Right never came along, and the sperm bank is just down the street), I don’t think any woman would describe that path as her ideal. Single motherhood is booby-trapped with emotional, financial and time management difficulties. No little girl dreams of growing up and doing it all by herself.

But as an American, I at least have the perk of being praised as somewhat of a societal hero. In South Korea, that’s never the case.

In 2008, I was selected to take an all-expense paid trip to South Korea to search for my birth family. While the trip yielded no family members for me, it did change the way I understood Korean adoption and my place in the world as a mother and adopted Korean American.

As part of this trip to Korea, which was sponsored by the Overseas Koreans Foundation, we visited babies at the Holt offices in Seoul. These were all infants who were going to be sent overseas, mostly to the United States. To say this was an emotional event would be an understatement. Holding these babies and realizing they were about to embark on the same journey that I had, more than three decades earlier, was overwhelming. Not just because I knew what they were in for, but also because as a mother, I knew how much the women who gave birth to them longed to keep them.

A few days later, I visited a city-run orphanage in Seoul: the Hae Sim Orphanage. Approximately 12 children, both boys and girls, lived in this home under the loving and firm supervision of a small staff. The children, infants to age 7, clearly loved and respected their caretakers. Even the toddlers bowed politely and greeted me with smiling annyeonghaseyos. The older boys were excited to have visitors, and didn’t want us to leave. The children were beautiful—perfect, actually—and I just could not understand why nobody wanted them. I already knew that South Koreans rarely adopted domestically but these children in the city-run orphanages had even slipped through the cracks of overseas adoption. Why?

A few days later, I visited yet another orphanage outside of Seoul. This one, in Anyang, was a much larger facility with at least 40 children. We were greeted by rows of tiny shoes, lined up neatly in the hallway entrance. With volunteers and two fellow Korean adoptees from Denmark and Canada, I arrived to make dinner (spaghetti and meatballs with kimchi) for the children.

After dinner, we played. The little ones, infants through toddlers, clung to us and cried as soon as they were set down, but the older ones, ages 5 to 7, wanted to engage and interact. Perfect children in a tragic setting. It was during a talk with one of the Korean volunteers that I finally learned the truth about these city-run “orphanages.”

She told me, “The children in these homes have Korean parents. They are mostly the children of divorced couples and very poor couples.” Another ugly truth about Korea’s highly Confucianist society is that custody is almost always awarded to the father in the case of a divorce, no matter what the circumstances. If the man does not want to raise the children, or has no relatives who will take care of them, he will often leave the children at one of these homes and the mother has no rights. The misnomer of “orphanage” is widely accepted because Westerners don’t want to hear the truth, but they are simply dumping grounds for innocent victims of an archaic cultural practice. These children are not even available for adoption because they have legal Korean parents, and while the mothers long for their children on the outside, the children languish on the inside.

These children are not orphans; they have parents that are healthy, functioning and alive. That, along with the fact that Korea is still exporting its children when they have the lowest birthrate amongst all industrialized nations, and can boast the 11th largest economy in the world, is disturbing. During a conversation with Dae-won Wenger, a Swiss-raised Korean adoptee and Secretary General of Global Overseas Adoptees’ Link, he pointed out that, “The more advanced Korea becomes, the more [Koreans] are devaluing their children.”

America’s rescue mentality towards foreign children is nothing new and, in the case of Korea, stems from a legitimate history of humanitarian aid after the Korean War. But few people seem to question why overseas Korean adoption peaked in 1985, decades after a cease-fire was signed in 1953. These numbers show that Westerners who now adopt from Korea are participating in a very profitable operation, whether they know it or not. In the majority of cases, they are adopting a single woman’s child. A child like my own.

As a single mother and Korean adoptee with a sketchy adoption file, you can imagine that I have strong feelings on the issue of single mothers’ rights in South Korea. I realized that if I lived in Korea, my own daughter probably would have been adopted out or placed in a group home, and that the choice to keep her would be intrinsically attached to a life of poverty and shame.

But a movement in Korea, though small, has begun. Brave people are finally stepping forward and with advocates like Richard Boas, founder of the Korean Unwed Mothers Support Network, and allies like adoptee filmmaker Tammy Chu, birth mothers and single parents in Korea will finally have a voice and eventually be able to enjoy the rights they deserve—not just as mothers, but as human beings.

Tonight, I am writing in a hotel room in Pennsylvania, over 2,600 miles away from my little girl in Los Angeles. My upcoming performance is a very important one and may determine how much work I book over the next year. No matter how much I miss my daughter when I travel, I am proud to show her what a woman can do and I am grateful to have the right to do it.

In two nights, I will be home to bathe her, read to her and tuck her in with hugs and kisses because I am her mother and this is how it should be.

By Smriti Rao

Fed chairman Ben Bernanke says the recession is “very likely over,” the Dow swaggers to the top of the 10,000 mark, and Obama is confident the worst is behind us. So why does it still hurt so bad? If you are one of the millions in America looking for a job in this economy, it’s hard to believe the pundits. “Employment is a lagging indicator,” they assure us, speaking like parents chiding a child for not eating his greens.

But if there ain’t no green in the pocket, it’s hard to swallow what they say. Everywhere, the stories are the same—making us wonder, is the economy really recovering?

“It’s a really bad market,” says Wonyoung Hong, a taxation major at New York’s Fordham University who moved from Korea last year. “Really impossible to get a job. A lot of my friends were fired at the end of last year; they’re still looking for jobs. They all have good backgrounds, experience, and most went to school here. When I see such qualified people struggling, I feel it will be more difficult for me.”

Hong, 27, graduates next month and going by her description of her summer internship application process, she is ready for “hell.”

“I sent out 40 to 50 resumes to different accounting firms,” she notes gloomily. “Most didn’t even reply. It’s depressing and time-consuming.” She finally landed her current internship through her college professor. The experience of wading through a brutal job market, however, has shaken her.

Since the recession began almost two years ago, the economy has shed 7 million jobs. Whole industries—auto, housing, finance—have been decimated. And while students like Hong spend their afternoons studying and fretting about graduation, there are scores getting fired, working unpaid internships or agonizing about the U.S. jobless rate—which in September, hit a 26-year high of 9.8 percent.

As the unemployment typhoon rages outside, other students like Jacky Ahn are safely boarded up in college. The 21-year-old graduates next May, but knows it will still be choppy outside.

“I went to the career fair organized by Columbia University last year; there were a lot of companies. This year, there was a significant drop in potential employers,” says Ahn, noting that Google and some other financial and consulting firms were conspicuously absent this year. Macroblog, a website by the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta that tracks economic trends, revealed that at the end of August, there were estimated to be fewer than 2.4 million job openings.

“There is definitely a sense of anxiety for students, recent graduates,” says Caroline Ceniza-Levine, co-founder of SixFigureStart, a career-coaching firm comprised of former Fortune 500 recruiters. “People are hearing that jobs are picking up, but they’re getting mixed messages. And, a lot of them have some very big decisions to make—having to settle down or move back home.”

For Ahn, who was born in the United States but grew up in Korea, going back to Asia is not an option. “I want to stay on. I want to work in New York.” Her only choice, therefore, is to start the job hunt early and the number one rule, according to career counselors, is to go for broke and find an internship.

“In booming times, if you had an internship, you would [eventually] get hired by the company,” says Ceniza-Levine. “But even in a down market, an internship still puts you at an advantage.” She urges students and recent grads to take up freelance work, temp jobs and unpaid internships in order to put something—anything—down on the resume that shows “that you are still in the game, not sitting on the couch.”

For students or recent graduates looking to enter the market, it also pays to know what sort of job one is looking for. “I applied for everything!” says Kimberly Ma, a recent college graduate who now works as a waitress in Manhattan. “Even if I was not qualified for the job, I sent the application in. Any job would be good at this point.”

Ceniza-Levine says that this approach is more harmful than helpful. “There is nervousness about being specific,” she says. “People apply to everything and that hinders your prospects. Be focused. It makes you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

Korean American job seekers can also try a stint working in the motherland.

“There is no more prestige working in the United States compared to working in Asia,” says Chris Yoon, a 28-year-old Columbia Business School graduate, who now works at a private equity firm in Seoul. “In the past, Asian market deals were small, shady, not well organized. It took American bankers to finish the job. But not anymore. The Asian market is doing so much better than the U.S. market, and the deals are bigger here now.”

David Huh, 32, a Korean American who works in a global financial services firm in Seoul, adds that young graduates should look at the recession as a great opportunity to return to their roots.

“Most of my classmates who came from Korea wanted to stay in New York, or at least in the States, as they believed they could learn a lot from the work experience,” says Huh, who is also a graduate of Columbia. “Some Korean people even regarded going back to Korea right after graduation as a kind of failure.” Both Huh and Yoon dismiss that notion.

Also, “proficiency in English is regarded as a very important skill in Korea, especially in the business world. Naturally, this leads to better job opportunities overall,” Huh says, adding that Koreans appreciate American degrees and would welcome potential employees with a solid education, English fluency and the relevant background.

Yoon also believes that in Korea, recent graduates don’t have to battle the notorious bamboo ceiling. “Unless you’re in the top 1 percent, with a crazy pedigree and pretty much white, you won’t get too far,” he says, referring to the perceived glass ceiling in corporate America for Asians. “Why put up with the racial stuff in the U.S. when you can feel at home and safe and do the same things and make the same kind of money in [Korea]? I would encourage new graduates to expand their scope and look for jobs in Asia.”

International students looking to stay on in the States, however, have more than a glass ceiling to confront. The reality is that the pool of job openings is going to be significantly smaller for non-citizens. “When you walk into an interview, the first question they ask is, ‘What’s your visa status?’” says Wonyoung Hong, the Fordham student from Korea. “That’s when you know it’s over!”

Caroline Ceniza-Levine advises international students not to get discouraged by the limited job opportunities. “You have to be better,” she says. She believes the approach that works best in this market is having a bold attitude. “That is harder for some of my Asian clients,” says Ceniza-Levine. “Some are shyer than the others. You have to do some heavy-duty networking. It’s a very sales and marketing oriented approach.”

For now, soft-spoken Hong is gearing up for a gritty month until her December graduation. While she continues to scout job openings, the native Korean is using her downtime to boost her English skills.

“Going back is not such a bad option,” she says. “The job market [in Korea] is not as bad; at least I am not a foreigner there. I have a network, family and friends. If opportunities here are not really good, then it’s really hard to justify staying here, paying high rent.”

As she keeps her options open, the clock is ticking for other students as extra cash runs dry and loans start to kick in. And despite what Ben, Barack and the Dow say, it’s going to be a long, hard winter.

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

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