Story and photographs by Bill Stephens

When you think Seoul, you envision a bustling capital city, with tall buildings, shopping centers, chain restaurants and car-packed streets. The concrete jungle, in fact, has long had a reputation for being pedestrian-unfriendly. However, in the past 20 years, Seoul appears to be remaking itself, and in substantially greener shades.

A visit to Cheonggyecheon, smack in the middle of Seoul’s central business district, illustrates this point. Three years ago, the city spent about $330 million to liberate the stream (cheon in Korean), which was trapped under a concrete expressway overpass. A typical day now finds city dwellers and visitors strolling alongside the 3.5-mile waterway, lit up at night by rocks with colorful LED lights inside them. Children playfully jump across the stone steps in the water, and fountains, waterfalls, bridges and murals adorn the newly uncovered stream.

After this success story, the push for creating a more “livable,” pedestrian-friendly Seoul has gained momentum, and park supporters couldn’t be more pleased. “A prospering economy and maturing democracy changed people’s consciousness, and the desire for parks and other green areas increased,” explained Seoul National University landscape architecture professor Hwang Keewon.

Cho Sehwan, a landscape architecture professor at Hanyang University, added: “It’s part of the 21st century global urban regeneration trend. The creation of more parks matches citizens’ needs for improved quality of life.”

***

Following the 35-year colonial occupation by Japan and the Korean War, as Seoul began rebuilding its devastated country in the 1960s, some of the parks and green spaces that survived were actually destroyed in favor of unbridled development. However, beautification efforts in preparation for the 1988 Seoul Summer Olympics marked a turning point. And since the 1990s, democratically elected and locally autonomous mayors, such as South Korea’s current President Lee Myung Bak who formerly served as the mayor of Seoul, reportedly realized that the city’s emerging middle class increasingly longed for a more livable town.

Then-Mayor Lee is credited with leading greening efforts, like the building of Seoul Forest and the liberation of Cheonggye Stream. Other notable green schemes included World Cup Park, the Mt. Namsan Park restoration and City Hall’s grassy front lawn.

Choi Yoonjong of the city government’s Green Seoul Bureau says it’s an exciting and busy time, as the city prioritizes building new parks and improving old ones. “By law, we have a new mindset in Korea,” said Choi. “We no longer allow parks and green spaces to be taken for development.”

Choi, who studied forestry in Korea and later, recreation, sports and tourism in the United States, said the city has a budget to purchase land for parks and that it works with the nonprofit Seoul Green Trust, to generate ideas for new ones. At times, the green space builders have to get innovative, considering the limited landscape in the highly developed city. For example, a former waste dump was converted into World Cup Park. A public golf course became Seoul Forest, and the city purchased an abandoned brewery to create Yeondeungpo Park. The city is even offering financial incentives to building owners who install rooftop gardens and now requires new developments to incorporate park space as part of their projects.

Of course, the city has met with a fair share of opposition to this greening movement. Critics of the Chonggyecheon Stream project, for example, protested the displacement of local merchants as well as the hefty cost, which paid for removing three miles of highway and building seven miles of pipe to pump water there artifically from the Han River. “But the city persuaded people with economic compensation and traffic alternatives, and by constructing a new building for displaced merchants,” said Hanyang University’s Cho.

And now many of those who protested the stream’s recovery are enjoying its fruits: reduced air pollution, increased foot traffic and higher property value in the surrounding area. An estimated 60,000 people daily visit the stream, where the number of fish species increased from four to 25.

Choi said the big challenge these days is the cost of buying land. “Owners want more and more from the city. Land prices are very expensive in downtown Seoul.”

Choi offered to show this reporter Seoul Forest, a $243 million, 280-acre park (one-third the size of New York’s Central Park) built for both nature viewing and recreation. Seoul Forest, co-managed by the city and Seoul Green Trust’s Seoul Forest Conservancy, boasts 48,000 trees, attracts 10 million visitors annually, and is staffed by 130 volunteers who help maintain the grounds and run environmental education programs.

Inside, we passed gardens, playgrounds and areas for picnics and cultural events. Then we drove on a pedestrian bridge, from which we viewed a sprawling ecological forest, the park’s main area and wildlife sanctuary. We paused to observe deer, whom visitors can feed during certain hours. “The deer are the most popular feature of the park,” Choi said, noting that there 120 deer here, as well as squirrels and ducks.

We drove over an eco-bridge to see where Seoul Forest meets the Han River. En route back to the main entrance, we stopped to chat with park visitor Hay Sunyoung, who was being wheel-chaired around by a caregiver.

“This place is special,” said Hay. “Beautiful. Clean air. Coming here opens my mind.”

A 20-minute taxi ride later, an interpreter and I entered World Cup Park, which Choi had told me “used to be a dirty smelly place, where garbage and trash were dumped.” As we walked I discovered 840 acres of lush greenery, with ponds, gardens, picnic spots, playgrounds, and walking and biking trails. The day’s visitors included a group of bicyclists picnicking under the shade of trees.

“Our bike group cycles here four times a week,” one of them said. “It’s like a forest, with clean air, a good environment and a good bike trail. It’s easier biking here than to the mountains.”

***

“Seoul’s made progress, but we have a ways to go,” said Seoul Green Trust Secretary General Lee Kangoh, noting that the World Health Organization recommends at least 9 square meters of park space per city resident. Seoul has improved in recent years from 4.5 to more than 5 square meters (excluding surrounding mountains). New York City has 14 square meters per resident.

Lee’s six-year-old nonprofit, with 16 employees and funded by donations, works as a partner with the city to expand green spaces. “We’re like a brain trust,” explained Lee, who has worked on forestry projects in the Philippines, Maldvies and India.

He said it’s difficult to make Seoul green in large part because of the city’s 20th- century urbanization. “Today, 82 percent of the city is covered with concrete and asphalt,” he said. And even with the support of current Mayor Oh Sehoon to build more parks, there’s competition with parking and housing demands. Golf courses, too.

The group successfully protested plans to build a course at World Cup Park. A nature area was built in its place. “The golfers were angry,” Lee said. “But Seoul needs parks more than golf courses.”

Although Seoul Green Trust works on many large projects, Lee is especially enthused about recent efforts to create small neighborhood “pocket” parks. Each year the Trust creates six to 10 new pocket parks, averaging 500 square meters, about the size of a basketball court, often on empty land previously used for trash and parking. There are now more than 200 small neighborhood parks in Seoul. Lee’s goal is 1,000 by 2020.

“When Seoul was developed fast, the city’s traditional community system was destroyed,” said Lee, who complains that Seoul’s poor neighborhoods are “99 percent” covered by building and parking. “So when neighbors work together to create small parks, there’s also a social benefit.”

One of Lee’s favorite success stories is Mia Dong Park located in a southeast Seoul working-class neighborhood. “We taught the local people to care for the park,” he said. “When we finished, neighbors were so happy, they made us drinks and soup.

“I feel at home when working with people in neighborhoods,” Lee said. “We must persuade them. You can plant a tree in one week. But [in order to build a park,] we have to plant a seed in the community’s mind.”

***

Seoul’s push for parks appears to be moving forward full speed ahead. Dongdaemun Sports Stadium is currently being transformed into a park, as is an old private amusement park called Dream Land.

A $150 million project will improve Mt. Namsan Park by expanding green space, planting pine trees, adding rest areas and improving walking paths. When the 630-acre Yongsan U.S. Army military base eventually relocates south of Seoul, the vacated land will become a large park. Says Professor Hwang of Seoul National University: “Sooner or later, Yongsan will become Seoul’s ‘Central Park.’”

There are plans for a large north-south eco-corridor connecting Seoul’s large and small parks by 2015.

“I hope Seoul becomes an ‘eco-city’—a city that operates in the natural ecosystem,” said Prof. Cho Sehwan from Hanyang University. “To do that, we need to both add parks and introduce mixed land use, so Seoul will be whole.

“Parks and green spaces are not for decoration of the city,” he added. “They are properly left for future generations to live healthy and enjoy culture.”

Photo illustration by Eric Sueyoshi

In a city known for sweet tea and blinged-out rap stars, Koreans are carving their own niche—and it sure is peachy!

By Lola Pak

“DO you guys call it ‘Hotlanta?’” a man from New Jersey once asked me upon introduction. Though the sun definitely scorches from April to October, I politely responded that we do not call it that, while restraining myself from retorting back with a sarcastic inquiry about his home state.

Be cordial and honest, no matter what. It’s the Southern way. While I may not call this place “Hotlanta,” I do call it home.

I was born in Atlanta, raised in the suburbs of Tucker and Duluth, and attended college at the University of Georgia. In many ways, I’m as Southern as can be. But I also happen to be Korean and you won’t find me sipping a mint julep at a debutante ball anytime soon.

So where do I fit in the Old Dixie?

In Koreatown, of course. Our Koreatown has yet to receive an official designation, but it is generally considered to be in Duluth, a suburban town about 30 miles north of downtown Atlanta in Gwinnet County. A drive down its main thoroughfare, Pleasant Hill Road, shows just how much the area lives up to its moniker: Enormous plazas with Super H-Marts and tofu houses sit under the gaze of Korean realtors plastered on billboards. Noraebangs decked with disco balls and Egyptian hieroglyphics pump out the latest hits in Korean and English.

When Grace Shim, 23, moved from Long Island, N.Y., to attend Emory University, she was pleasantly surprised at the established Korean community.

“It reminded me of a more spacious version of Flushing,” she says. Now there are 80,000 Koreans residing in Gwinnett County alone, one-tenth of the county’s general population. According to Nick Masino, vice president of economic development at the Gwinnett Chamber of Commerce, the county provides just what we’re looking for.

“Koreans value education and Gwinnett offers the best school system in the state,” Masino says. “Word got out that it was also a nice, comfortable place to live and everything just followed—banks, stores, everything.”

But how did Koreans end up here in the Atlanta area in the first place?

The first settlers arrived in the early 1890s when Yun Ch’i-Ho, one of the writers of South Korea’s national anthem, came to learn theology at Emory University. Many decades later, a larger wave arrived. Young K. Shinn, 67, moved to Atlanta in 1969 and opened one of the first Asian supermarkets in the middle-class town of Doraville. Now called the Buford Highway Farmer’s Market, it recently celebrated its 37th anniversary, earning the title of the longest running Asian-owned market in Atlanta. It remains an institution in the Korean community.

“Forty years since I’ve been here and I still like it,” Shinn says. “Nice weather, clean water, red clay. There’s no red clay in L.A.”

Then, in 1996, the Centennial Olympics changed everything for Atlanta. After beating Athens and then-favorite Toronto for the top spot, officials set out almost overnight to revamp the city to handle the influx of tourists. Many of them ended up staying and Atlanta’s population escalated.

South Koreans were among them. The U.S. Census counted 15,275 Koreans in 1990 and 28,745 by 2000—a staggering 88-percent rise. Today, the Atlanta metro area is the fastest-growing region in the country.

Shinn has seen the Korean community flourish from the slightly decrepit digs in Doraville (better known as Buford Highway) to the glittering stucco plazas in Duluth.

“I once heard a story back in 1969 that Atlanta will be bigger than New York,” he says. “I didn’t believe it then, but now I do.”

With good Korean eats, hangout spots and thriving community organizations, Atlanta is a great place to be. Watch out, America. The “Hotlanta” you speak of is just starting to burn up.

DESTINATION: ATLANTA

WHERE TO EAT

Myung Ga Won
Right off the Pleasant Hill exit, the 24-hour traditional restaurant is two stories of Korean BBQ goodness. Make sure to get the spicy galbijjim or naengmyeon-galbi combination.
1960 Day Dr., Ste 100, Duluth, (770) 622-1300.

Honey Pig
Forget the swine flu. Grill your samgyupsal, kimchi and basically anything on the hot stone domes with the help of young and mostly-male servers.
3473 Old Norcross Road, Ste. 304, Duluth, (770) 476-9292.

Book Chang Dong
For fans of BCD in L.A.’s K-town, say hello to its Southern sister. Variations of tofu stew, aka sundubu, are paired with galbi or arrowroot naengmyeon, a summer favorite and widely considered the best in town. 2550 Pleasant Hill Road, Duluth, (770) 814-2299.

BELOVED BAKERIES

Maum
Wide booths, long tables and open spaces with plenty of outlet plugs for laptops make this spot perfect for group meetings and private study sessions.
3182 Steve Reynolds Blvd., Duluth, (770) 813-8874.

White Windmill
As one of the larger bakery-cafés, it’s also the only Korean joint to have a sandwich and soup bar. The pressed paninis come with soup, chips, and a small pouch of the in-house baked walnut cookies.
5881 Buford Hwy., Doraville, (678) 887-5200.

Café Mozart
Any decent bakery can make good bread, but how about raspberry mousses or the Korean summer favorite, patbingsu? Head here when your sweet tooth screams for more than sugared yeast.
2131 Pleasant Hill Road, Duluth, (770) 232-1111.

VISITING THE PEACH STATE? HERE’S A GUIDE TO KOREATOWN IN THE ATL.

THREE THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW:

1. Not everyone has a Southern accent!
You might get the occasional “y’all” but in general, don’t expect a Beverly Hillbillies reenactment everywhere you go.

2. Know your Peachtrees
There are about 70 streets in metro Atlanta with the word ‘peachtree’. The main ones in Duluth are Peachtree Industrial and Peachtree Parkway. Don’t speed on either!

3. It’s humid. Really humid.
The average yearly temperature for Georgia is 64 degrees Fahrenheit, but it feels hotter due to the humidity. Avoid thick makeup and socks in the summer.

WHAT NOT TO DO:

Sit in highway traffic
Forbes named Atlanta the No.1 worst commuter town” in the country. This usually applies to downtown commuters, so you’re safe if you stay uptown.

Speed in Duluth
The Duluth Police Department is notorious for handing out speeding tickets. Trust a local—just don’t do it!

Buy drinks on Sundays
Georgia law prohibits the sale of alcohol on Sundays, but only in retail stores, so just grab your Hites and soju shots at any of the places mentioned above (then pray afterwards).

ATLANTA KOREANS ARE …

Ultra-polite
From yes ma’ams to pardon-mes, there’s definitely been a cultural exchange of sorts with the mostly-conservative locals, starting with proper manners.

Well-traveled
Atlanta is home to not only the global headquarters of Delta Airlines, but also the busiest airport in the world. Catch weekly non-stop flights to Seoul on Korean Air from Hartsfield-Jackson International.

Bilingual
Most Koreans in Atlanta know how to speak both languages equally fluent, due to dealing with the initial rush of Koreans from South Korea..

WHERE TO HANG:

Bistro New York: Great for cafe talks and karaoke. 4126 Pleasantdale Road, Doraville, (770) 263-0220.

Prime: Local watering hole known for beer pitchers that light up and bartenders who remember their regulars. 3545 Peachtree Industrial Blvd., Duluth, (770) 495-8060.

Do Re Mi: Fa-so-la-ti-do! Belt your heart our in one of the larger, cleaner karaoke joints, right next to the Super H-Mart. 2550 Pleasant Hill Road, Duluth, (770) 497-0070.

DON’T MISS:

The Georgia Aquarium: Atlanta’s latest pride and joy opened in 2005 as the largest indoor aquarium in the world. Reserve tickets before going to avoid the lines. www.georgiaaquarium.org

Stone Mountain: Do L.A. and New York have gargantuan granite boulders in their backyards? Didn’t think so. www.stonemountainpark.com

Lenox Square Mall: With every couture label under the sun, a celebrity siting is almost a given. Past sitings have included Usher, Ciara and A-town reppin’ Korean rapper Crown J. www.simon.com/mall

By Allen Kim   Illustration by Kyungduk Kim

The popularized images of Korean fathers in high-profile news articles over the last several years, or even anecdotally, paint a picture of men who are disconnected from their families, emotionally closed, focused solely on their breadwinning duties or, in some cases, even prone to violence. At one extreme, who could forget the horrifying story of the Korean immigrant father who shot his wife, son and daughter before turning the gun on himself in 2006. His daughter, Binna, lived to tell of the traumatic experience, her solitary photo against a black background appearing on the cover of Los Angeles Times’ West magazine the same year. Even abroad fathers are not immune to the negative image: A recent Korea Times article reported that South Korean fathers spend the least amount of time with their families, compared with other dads in East Asia.

But these highlighted “failures” of Korean fathers do not tell the whole story. Across the United States, a growing number of Korean immigrant men are actively searching for the answer to the fundamental question: What does it mean to be a man and a father today?

Since its introduction to U.S. shores from South Korea in 2000, thousands of dads have participated in what’s known as Father School—a religiously inspired movement that seeks to turn the hearts of men toward their families.

Founded in 1995, Duranno Father School developed in South Korea as an evangelical response to concerns over uninvolved fathers, broken families, materialism and other issues considered contradictory to biblical values. Men were viewed as the weak link in their families often because they were emotionally and/or physically absent. Today, as a non-profit organization, Father School sponsors various men’s ministries, both religious and secular, that squarely address men’s responsibility within the family. Their goal is to promote involved and positive fathering.

“We feel that men are disconnected from their purpose, and that positive father involvement is a learned behavior,” said Hyun Kyu In, director of USA Father School in Los Angeles. “The father’s influence cannot be understated. Men must show their love in front of their children, to touch and even kiss their wives publicly, to be reconciled with their own fathers. All of these things translate to the likelihood of better relations with their own children.”

To date, Father School has sponsored more than 2,400 educational sessions in 37 countries, with over 140,000 graduates worldwide, according to statistics provided by USA Father School. In North America, it has operated in 46 cities with over 14,000 graduates and counting. Although it primarily caters to Korean immigrants, it is increasingly taking hold in Latino communities as well.

Conferences are organized as four-day seminars replete with small group activities, testimonials, lectures and writing assignments. Men spend a total of 20 hours at Father School events, with between 55 to 170 men attending a single session. As a grassroots operation, the organization relies on volunteers—graduates of the program—to help run the seminars, recruit and serve as small group facilitators. Members come from a variety of backgrounds and religious perspectives, and, while informed by Christian spirituality, do not advocate a particular faith organization.

Kyu Bae Choi, vice president of USA Father School, said that every year there are several cases of divorces being cancelled as a result of men’s participation in the program.

As a graduate student of sociology researching this movement since 2006, I secured permission to attend three Father School conferences at various churches in Los Angeles, and also conducted several site visits to the USA Father School headquarters in L.A.’s Koreatown to interview organization leaders and volunteers. I was given access to speak with Father School participants and to read their personal letters during these conferences, with the agreement that I would keep their identities anonymous. I use pseudonyms for school participants and volunteers in this article, and their comments published here have been translated from Korean.

With this access, I uncovered a unique world inhabited by Korean fathers that many would be surprised by—even moved by. It was a world shaped by discomfort, despair, tears, regrets, healing, hope and renewed motivation. Here is a glimpse into that hidden world.

Building the Family Builder

It’s 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon, and volunteers wearing the unmistakable blue-and-white-striped Father School T-shirts greet Korean men outside of the entrance to the main conference room. Attendees, who paid a $100 entrance fee, will receive among other items, nametags, an advice manual, evening meals and stationery for homework assignments. Men are then directed to assigned tables separated by age groups. Decorating the room are large banners declaring in Korean, “As the father lives, so the family lives!” and “Lord, I am a Father”—clues that the organization seeks to squarely address men’s role as fathers and husbands.

Meetings are scheduled to run from 2 p.m. until 9 p.m. each Saturday and Sunday over two weekends. During the four compacted days, these men will learn about what it means to be a “family builder.” Toward that end, all the activities men will participate in are designed to help them open up emotionally and express themselves in more loving ways, which explains exercises like having men hug each other and homework assignments to go on dates with family members.

Of course, such activities cause some participants to feel uncomfortable. I’ve even witnessed some men walk out of the conferences. Despite the “money-back guarantee” of satisfaction promised by Father School leaders, when largely first-generation Korean men, from ages 29 to 75, first enter the seminar room, they appear unsure of what they got themselves into. The look of restlessness among the younger fathers was more apparent, perhaps given the business of their lives and the leisure activities they like to pursue on weekends. Not surprisingly, a majority of the men in attendance didn’t come out of their own volition. In one conference survey I conducted, 75 percent of men indicated that their participation was prompted by the prodding of their wives or persuasion of a friend or pastor.

After a general introduction by school leaders, the men are assigned their first group exercise: creating a team name and chant, and then drawing pictures distilling their experience as husbands and fathers. Armed with colored markers and crayons, men draw images that signify such things as golf, smoking, alcohol, American and Korean flags, money signs plastered on houses and the Christian symbol of the cross.

Representing a group of six men in their 40s, Jiwon describes their drawings to the audience. “We wrote down, ‘Come here quickly, Dad’ because our group all shared a number of obstacles keeping us from our families, including work, drinking with friends, golfing, billiards, even church obligations,” said Jiwon, 41. “We know our families miss our presence as seen by the sad face of this child.”

Another poster proclaimed more boldly: “Children! We will become better fathers!”  I will not forget one picture that prominently displayed a cartoon depiction of an angry red face with fumes coming out of the top of his head. “At times the image of an angry father may be in the minds of our family,” Jim explained. “This is not the image we wish to leave for our families.” When asked to elaborate on the image of the angry face, the 42-year-old added that many of the men themselves grew up with overbearing, sometimes abusive fathers and that, despite wanting to parent differently, ended up following in the same footsteps.

“Korean dads confront a new environment in America,” said Sangil, a 37-year-old Father School volunteer. “[They] risk greater estrangement from their kids because … they simply do not know how to father in a positive way.”

Later in the day, men watch two videos that demonstrate contrasting father images: the first shows a man stressed out from work, drinking alcohol and smoking with coworkers, and then arriving home late and irritable to his family. Meanwhile his children have grown up quickly and are left only with images of an authoritarian, emotionally distant father whose sole role was as breadwinner. The Korean man’s legacy, says the narrator, leaves deep pain and regret.

The second image shows a Korean father arriving home early from work with a smile and going on dates with his eager children. He is openly affectionate and encouraging.

The men are encouraged to discuss these contrasting representations, but getting stoic Korean men to share their feelings is no easy task. A combination of guest speakers and testimonials by Father School volunteers, who are themselves former students, facilitate this effort. A volunteer at one conference I attended, for example, shared with the audience how, in an overzealous attempt to impart the lesson of poverty and the importance of studying, he once left his son on a street corner in a poor neighborhood and shouted in outrage whether he wanted to end up like the people there. With tears, the guest speaker expressed deep regret recalling the tears that had appeared on his son’s face that day. He realized there is a “better way” to impart lessons to a child.

While sitting at the table of 40-year-old fathers, I heard several men raise a number of issues related to generational conflict with their Americanized children. Many expressed frustration over their children’s disrespect for their authority, with one even revealing that his child called the police to report the dad’s use of physical discipline. As I listened to these men, I, the son of a Korean immigrant, started to recall my own dad’s use of “tools” like a pool stick or the pulling of a cheek to reprimand the two boys in the family.  The linkage between Korean fatherhood and physical violence is an unfortunate stereotype, but at the same time, corporal punishment was long considered an acceptable practice in Korean society, whether within the family, school or military.

And yet, as I sat with these older men, I observed an uncommon scene: fathers choked up with tears and regrets about their past behavior. ”For several years, I was against the person my daughter loved and caused her considerable pain,” said Woojin, 57. Other dads confessed it was difficult to imagine their fathering role beyond breadwinning and scolding their children.

No Handshaking Allowed

In a strange and uncomfortable moment during the conference, two male volunteers walk to a center stage and demonstrate how participants are to hug one other, chest to chest (no macho back patting). Handshaking is not allowed at the school. Many men are noticeably feeling awkward, as nervous laughter can be heard.

The hugging requirement is supposed to underscore the point that positive fathering involves open expression, both physical and verbal. It is also intended to help bring participants closer together. The men are encouraged to hug upon first greeting each other and also when the need to comfort each other arises. After all, a key feature of the Father School organization is emphasis on accountability groups, similar to the 12-step program used by Alcoholics Anonymous. School volunteers told me that, in their experience, participants will form friendships that endure long after the conference ends and turn to each other for emotional support.

Similar to transforming men’s body language, the school also promotes language guidelines that are more egalitarian and affectionate than what many traditional Korean dads are used to. Within the Korean language, certain pronouns are used to locate the individual within a Confucian social hierarchy. But here, men are instructed to address one another generically as “hyeongjeanim” (brother), instead of using honorific titles, despite the presence of pastors and elders. I found that abandoning hierarchical formalities did allow the men to share with each other more freely.

The more egalitarian language also extends to their spouses. Among many Korean immigrant men, a common way to refer to one’s wife is as “jip saram” (house person) or “an saram” (inside person), which some perceive as degrading toward women. Instead, the men were told to refer to their wives as “anea” (wife) or “saranghanun anea” (beloved wife) when addressing them in the presence of other men. When some men accidentally revert to the traditional references, volunteers jokingly tell them they will be fined for each verbal slip.

Fathers are not asked, however, to modify their language when it comes to their children, who are still expected to maintain the verb conjugations that denote respect of elders. But by moving away from some of the sexist references toward their spouses, Father School seems to embrace the idea that women and men are partners in raising their children, versus it being the sole domain of the mother.

And the school further promotes a more nurturing role for the father, different from the more rigid, Confucian-  modeled patriarchal one many grew up with in Korea. One homework assignment for the dads is to go home and lay their hands on all family members to “bless them.”

Letters Home

If Father School can be boiled down to one signature activity, it would be the writing of letters to family members, something the majority of the men have never done before. Taking a page from Western self-help culture, Father School leaders encourage the men to share good as well as painful memories, regrets and expressions of love in the various letters they are asked to write.

“Writing letters is the most important aspect of the conference to get men to communicate with family members from the heart,” explained group leader Chul. “As you know it is very difficult for Korean men to do this.”

Kyu Bae Choi, vice president of USA Father School, also described the countless instances of Korean American children who were never told they were loved until their fathers expressed themselves in their letters.

Although it may have been difficult, many of the men—often seen frantically working on the missives during free moments throughout the conference—end up expressing themselves quite openly, as with this message from Paul, 57, written to his adult daughter:

Writing this letter to you, I feel a little awkward. I feel sorry that I couldn’t do much for you, but demanded a lot of you instead. Especially since for a few years I was against the person you love and caused you a lot of pain. Even now, please forgive me. However, from now on, I’ll take the things I couldn’t do for you and do doubly better. I’m happy, thankful, and proud that you are doing well and keeping the dream of being a newlywed. …I love you, my daughter.

In addition to writing to their children, the men are instructed to pen letters to their fathers, even if they are deceased. In fact, this letter is considered a key activity because it allows the participant to address his own “father wound”—the psychic pain of being abandoned emotionally and/or physically by his own father. At times, these letters reveal painful pasts, such as with this one from Frank, 43:

But father, there is something you should apologize to me for. When I was a freshmen in college, do you remember the huge fight with mother? I know that mom was the one to blame; however, it was wrong that you hit her.

Another student, Song, 44, appeared to forgive his own father after realizing how difficult it must have been          balancing work and family, as the son now struggles to do:

Father, whom I love … it has been a while since I have called out to you. You didn’t speak much at home, right? Maybe because of that reason, I can’t really recall much of anything special. But at times, my wife tells me that I’m just like you. During winter, you wouldn’t return home from work until 10 at night, and maybe because of that, you did not have much time to spend with us. It has been 15 years since I last saw you. Please forgive this undutiful son who hasn’t been visiting your grave. I shall visit you when I go to Korea next time.

Graduation Day

On the final seminar day, the wives of participants are invited to attend what’s a climactic event. Women have in a sense been on a parallel journey with their spouses, as the men’s homework assignments often involve their wives. They include the couple going out on a date and the husband presenting a list of 20 things he loves about her. One husband, John, shared his wife’s reaction to this list: “She felt surprised and touched,” the 46-year-old said. “With tears she promised to [write] 20 things that she liked about me. That night, before going to bed, I read to my wife a letter of appreciation and blessed her with prayer. My wife was so touched that she cried. I cried because I was touched too. I now realize what is needed in marriage can arise from more honest expression.”

While women listen to a sermon in the main hall, men enter a separate room and are given the navy blue Father School T-shirts worn by volunteers. Men dramatically put on their new shirts, signifying their embrace of the Father School identity. The whole room is transformed into an army of men in blue and white stripes. They form a single line and, armed with a towel and wash basin, march out to their wives to wash their feet. The feet washing is meant to signify devotion and service to their families, in the same vein as Jesus’ action for his disciples. Every wife I observed was in tears during this cathartic ceremony.

The frailties of men’s own past mistakes and their spoken desire to become more caring and relevant fathers strikes a chord with all in the room—including myself. Spouses share intimate conversations and prayers as music from a praise band plays in the background. During the final meeting, the men are given diplomas. Leaders are quick to point out that they never really “graduate” in the sense of mastering fatherhood, but emphasize the lifelong journey ahead. Graduates will take home a booklet with the names and contact information of their group members so they can continue to serve as sources of mutual support.

I have not not followed men who have completed the Father School seminar nor have I yet interviewed their wives or children. But confessional letters men wrote toward the end of their schooling suggests an awakening.

“Thus far, I lived to just make money. I thought that was enough for my family,” wrote participant Yoojin, 38. “Through this conference, I learned that as a father, I am head of the family. I [learned] that there are many good things I could do without money, specifically through words and activities. From now on, I will offer encouragement instead of reprimands to my wife and children.”

Another graduate, Jinro, 46, wrote, “Before, I was the ruler of my family. I was not able to be a model to my children and was not able to become a generous friend…I thank Father School for clearly showing my misguided path and deficiencies like a mirror. The knowledge I have earned from Father School will transform me into a new father.”

I am weary of saying that Father School serves as a magic bullet for creating the loving, involved father. The issue is far more complex. But after attending hours of seminars, watching grown men cry over their regrets and reading personal letters full of deep self-reflection, what I can say with some degree of confidence is that thousands of Korean dads across the country are longing for better relationships with their children, and oftentimes, their spouses, too. Whether they will be successful in reforming their roles within their families, only time will tell, but clearly, the Father School movement is resonating with immigrant men who want to take that first step.

“Korean men in America often have no outlet for their despair or an opportunity … to reflect on their family life,” said Father School director In. “Even among the younger fathers in our program who have grown up with the norm of being friends to their children, many of them still have much to learn. One father I met shared in a small group meeting how he regretted missing out on the opportunity to play catch with his son. When his son had asked him to play, this father explained that he was too busy and promised to purchase a baseball set so that [his son] could play with his friends. He realized he missed the chance to engage with his son. Instead of giving himself, the father offered something else. This was a painful memory for him.

“The biggest contribution of Father School is that men are able to improve their communication, they are able to match the eye level and heart level of their family members.”

Allen Kim is continuing his research on Father School. If family members of participants are open to speaking with him, email him at oneallenkim@gmail.com.

Story and Photographs by Kathleen Richards

From the moment you step inside the sparse, fluorescent-lit classroom, it’s clear that this isn’t your typical college history class. And it’s not just because it’s housed deep inside a heavily fortressed state prison and that all the students are inmates.

Well, that’s part of the reason. San Quentin State Prison, which sits overlooking the north side of the San Francisco Bay, is best known for notorious residents like Richard Allen Davis, Scott Peterson and Richard Ramirez. But on a Monday evening in April, instructor Christine Hong is leading a discussion on North Korea within its walls. About 20 men sit a few to a table with their pens and notebooks open. Dressed in blue button-down shirts and jeans, the students look thoroughly engaged.

A mixed group including African Americans, Vietnamese and whites, the men are enrolled in a course titled “History, Memory and Culture in Modern Korea.” The class is offered through the Prison University Project, a nonprofit organization whose goal is to provide higher education to inmates. San Quentin may seem like an unlikely place to learn about Korea, but Hong— the course’s brainchild and a post-doc at the University of California, Berkeley, soon to be teaching at the University of California, Santa Cruz—would beg to differ.

The intensive, 15-week course, which meets for two hours twice a week, pays particular attention to marginalized voices—a position many of its students could relate to. The class, for example, examines the experiences of the zainichi, ethnic Koreans living in Japan who confronted discrimination, as well as the “comfort women” forced into sexual slavery during World War II and the North Koreans imprisoned in South Korea in the 1950s and ‘60s who were tortured in order to get them to renounce their communist loyalties. Required readings include the works of late North Korean dictator Kim Il Sung and former Black Panther leader Eldridge Cleaver. Even for a course at a mainstream college, the class’s approach would be considered radical, as it embraces the histories of both South and North Korea.

“What’s unusual about our syllabus … is that we don’t neglect North Korean history,” explains Hong, who co-teaches the course with Taejin Hwang, a Ph.D. candidate also at Berkeley. “And we also emphasize the problem of historiography from the outset, which is a question of not only what is Korean history in the 20th century, but what perspectives are privileged and what sort of ideological vantage points are favored. So, in other words, it’s not only what is Korean history, but who’s telling it and why.”

Back in the classroom, Hong reads from Kim Il Sung’s 1993 declaration, the 10-Point Programme of the Great Unity of the Whole Nation for the Reunification of the Country: “’All those who are concerned about the destiny of the nation, whether they be in the north, or in the south or overseas…’” Listen how capacious this is,” Hong says, addressing the students. “Even diasporic Koreans — what’s surprising about this?”

She calls on a student, James.

“Sounds like they want to keep the same government,” he says.

“That’s right,” Hong concurs. “But what’s striking about this notion of all Koreans—both on the peninsula and overseas, Koreans of all political stripes? This is Kim Il Sung, you guys. There are certain kinds of notions about this man, his political ideology, the narrow constraints of his political ideology. So what’s surprising about this?”

Rodney, a loquacious student sitting in the back of the classroom, pipes up. “Throughout the paper he uses the term ‘unify’ or ‘reunify’ over and over and over…, so [Kim] is pretty much calling to reunify. Let them know that they were divided by powers that had nothing to do with them. Let’s come back together.”

“Right,” said Hong. “It’s addressing that the original state of Korea was not divided, so … let’s regain that lost state, right?” After further discussion, Hong adds: “This letter has the gentle feeling and conciliatory feeling of a kind of open appeal. It’s taking advantage of the moment in which the Cold War bipolar politics of the Korean peninsula are thawing. It’s an incredibly rich symbolic moment.”

The level of engagement in the class—in its seventh week at the time of this report—is stunning, especially considering the fact that few knew anything about Korea prior to taking the class. Student Gregory Sanders said that just a few months ago, the extent of his knowledge of Korea was “I could find it on a map.” Today, the 57-year-old wants to discuss with this reporter how the recent missile launch by North Korea will impact the feasibility of reunification with its southern neighbor.

The class marks the first time that any course on Korean history or culture has been taught in the 13-year existence of the prison education program, which gets volunteers—many of whom are graduate students, instructors and faculty members from San Francisco Bay Area colleges and universities—to teach the classes. San Quentin has the only on-site college degree-granting program in California’s entire prison system. “It’s just been real exciting,” said Jody Lewen, the Prison University Project’s executive director, of the Korean history course. “It’s not a typical situation.”

And Hong is not your typical college instructor. The focus of her professional work, according to her, is “the U.S. military ‘peace’ that settled the Asia-Pacific region after Japan’s Pacific War defeat, and the Cold War emergence of Afro-Asian human rights cultural production as an extra-juridical mode of appeal, grievance, and critique.” Most recently, she has been instrumental in the campaign to save the Korean language program at Berkeley from budget cuts.

Before teaching the Korean history course at San Quentin, she also previously taught two literature classes at the prison. She lobbied for the Korean class, which originally was supposed to be a Cuban, Middle Eastern or Vietnamese history course, because she thought some of the themes would resonate with the students.

“The nature of contemporary Korean history … is profoundly international,” explains Hong. “There are so many periods of incredible difficulty and human drama, from colonialism to the war to authoritarianism. And all throughout there’s profound struggle of the Korean people for justice. And so I felt that in its own right, Korean history is so moving and complicated and so rich that students would be very interested.”

Her hunch appears to have been right. During a 10-minute break from class, inmates take turns answering this reporter’s questions. Will Packer, sitting in the back, says learning about Korea’s history has given him a greater understanding of his own culture. “Me being an African American, our histories have a lot in common,” observes Packer, who has previously taken Hong’s literature class. “The fact that we’re both colonized people, oppressed people by imperialist forces. Our suffering, our struggles, are similar.”

It’s a sentiment echoed by other students as well. “It’s very interesting to see … the Japanese colonization in Korea, and in my country it’s the French [colonizer],” says Vu Phan, who is of Vietnamese descent.

Marvin Andrews, an African American, connects Korea’s history to the civil rights movement in the United States. “W.E.B. Du Bois had addressed some of the same stuff that was going on in Korea at the hands of the Japanese in the same time African Americans was going through the same thing in the United States,” Andrews says. “You find people that have [been through] what you been through, so it’s like you’re not alone, [and] you want to study more and get to know more about it. That way you can better understand yourself, too.”

In many ways, Hong and Hwang say, teaching students at San Quentin has had an equally profound effect on them. “This is not to romanticize our students at all, but there’s something about the quality of experience, of just lived experience, even the experience of having confronted and still daily confronting adversity that makes our students bring a very thoughtful and profound analytical lens to the subject matter of Korean history,” says Hong. “And it really makes for stark contrast for us, even though we have some really wonderful students at UC Berkeley where we both have the opportunity to teach quite frequently. There’s something qualitatively different about this experience teaching here at San Quentin.”

Hwang, who is currently finishing up her dissertation on late 20th-century U.S.-Korea relations, notes the startling questions her students often ask have forced her to reassess her own presumptions about Korean history and culture.

Both instructors acknowledge that some of their students have no possibility of parole, which begs the question: What will these inmates ultimately take from such a course?

Hwang answers this way: “One of my [undergraduate] history professors said to me, ‘The purpose of my job is not to turn out a bunch of scholars, but the most important thing about history is [teaching] critical thinking,’ And I think that skill is so valuable for anybody, and I think Korean history is a vehicle.”

By Kai Ma

After Joseph Han decided to open a longboarding business in Folsom, California, he’d bought a rusty-red Volkswagen bus. The vehicle, purchased last summer for a few hundred dollars, only operated in first and second gears. The paint was badly chipped.

But none of that mattered to the young entrepreneur. Until he could open a physical store, the bus would serve as a promotional vehicle. After naming the company Black Lotus Boards, Han converted his garage into a workspace, spending thousands on woodworking machines to create prototypes for new, more innovative and affordable boards. Once established, he planned to donate longboards to kids.

As for the bus, he began sanding it down, adding black primer, redoing the interior and engine—even purchasing solar panels to add to the roof.

“Folsom is a really hot area,” said Tim Cho, Han’s cousin. “So it’s 105 degrees, but here’s Joe, sanding this car for hours, outside,” adding with a laugh, “It was pretty ridiculous.”

The vintage Volkswagen fit Han’s personality, added Cho, who lives in Mountain View, two hours from Folsom. Han had long hair, listened to Bob Marley. “He looked like an Asian surfer-slash-hippie. He was laid-back—that’s the best way to describe him. He didn’t take anything too seriously. No drama. He went against the grain.”

But less than a year after Han bought his bus, he was dead.

***

On Easter morning of this year, Han, who lived with his parents and 19-year-old brother, was fatally shot by police in his home in Folsom, a suburb east of Sacramento. He was 23 years old.

According to news and police reports, and interviews with cousin Cho, Han was acting unusual the days leading up to April 12, and his family called the Folsom Police Department for help. But the family and police’s accounts of what unfolded inside the home after three officers arrived are very different.

Early last month, the Folsom Police Department released the names of the officers who shot Han: Paul Barber, 32, and Sgt. Ron Peterson, 57, a 27-year veteran of the force. In a public statement, Sgt. Rick Hillman, who heads the department’s professional standards division, said that the police had arrived at the scene at 10:30 a.m. after a family friend, translating for Han’s parents, requested help.

According to Hillman, the caller told police that Han had been hallucinating, hadn’t eaten in several days and was locked in his bedroom with a knife. Hillman’s public account also specified that Peterson, Barber and a third officer entered the house and went upstairs to Han’s “cluttered” nine-foot-by-nine-foot bedroom. Han was standing, holding what police described as a nine-inch folding knife with a 4.5-inch blade. He told an officer to get out of his room or he’d “cut his throat,” Hillman said.

The officer drew a Taser stun gun and told Han to stop. When Han didn’t, the officer fired the Taser, but to no effect. Then, Barber entered the room and fired his Taser, which authorities said was also ineffective. When Han advanced on Barber, the officer fired his handgun, hitting Han in the upper body. Peterson then fired his Taser, but when Han advanced toward him with the knife in his hand, police said, Peterson fired his handgun, striking Han also in the upper body.

Han was transported to the University of California Davis Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead.

But Cho’s parents, Young So and Nam Hee Han, and brother, David, dispute police accounts that Han came at them with a knife, according to Tim Cho and Paul Cho (no relation), president of the Korean American Community Association of Greater Sacramento. Both have spoken extensively to the family about what they’d witnessed.

Paul Cho said he and other Korean American leaders in the area approached the Folsom Police Department to demand an explanation, and was told that Han was shot after failing to drop his weapon. “Their argument is weak,” Cho said. “I find it almost impossible to believe. The police acted excessively…that is for sure.”

According to Tim Cho, Han’s behavior in the days leading up to his death was unusual—but nothing that the average person doesn’t experience every once in a while. Though he was eating very little, the reports that he’d stopped consuming entirely and was hallucinating are inaccurate, Cho said.

“He was definitely going through a self-reflection period,” said Cho, of his younger cousin. “But he wasn’t shutting himself out. He met friends for coffee; he talked to his parents in his room. It’s not like he locked himself in and shunned himself from the rest of the world.

“He was reading the Bible a lot those last couple days, trying to understand his faith. He was trying to keep his mind clear.” Cho said that Han’s girlfriend had noticed no signs of depression or abnormal behavior. “Joe was never considered a depressed person,” added Cho. “This behavior—it was just that one week, the three to five days before he died.”

Still, Han’s demeanor was peculiar enough to prompt his mother to seek advice from Cho and others. She wasn’t worried that Han would hurt himself, said Cho, but felt that he was compromising his health by not eating enough. So, acting on the advice of a friend, who said the police could perhaps escort Han to a counseling center or send an officer trained in handling mental disturbances, Han’s mother made the call.

Cho, who arrived at the scene two hours after the shooting, has spoken to the police and questions the validity of their statements. Cho described his cousin’s blade as “any standard pocketknife” and feels the police have been exaggerating its length and size. “Each time I speak to them, the knife gets a half-inch longer,” he said.

Han’s mother and brother were present during the incident. (His father was downstairs until the first shot was fired.) Cho spoke to Han’s brother that Sunday, and to Han’s mother the next day, about what they’d witnessed. “Not a single detail is consistent with what the police reported,” he said.

The family told Cho that Han did not attack the police, but did have a knife and closed his door after asking the police to leave his room. The officers then kicked down the door with their Taser guns drawn, they say. Han was stunned several times, which had no effect on him, and then an officer fired a shot from his handgun. “It went through his chest and into the back wall,” said Cho.

At this point, Han’s mother fainted. An officer grabbed David, Han’s brother, and pushed him into the bathroom so hard that the door broke, the family told Cho. Han’s father attended to his wife. “My aunt and cousin clearly remember that the officer had control of the hand with the knife in it,” said Cho. “Joe did not lunge or make any threatening moves towards the police officers. My best guess is that [the officers’] adrenaline was running and they immediately kicked down the door, instead of taking a moment to evaluate their options.

“There was a struggle and [the police] shot him again. And his life ended there.”

All three officers, who were immediately put on administrative leave, had returned to work as of last month.

The incident occurred a month before another police-involved shooting of a Korean American in California: Susie Young Kim of Irvine led police on a high-speed chase before a Santa Ana officer fatally shot her while Kim’s 13-month-old daughter was in the backseat of the car. And it was two years ago when Michael Cho, a Korean American artist, was shot to death by police in La Habra, California, after authorities said he threatened them with a tire iron.

At the time of this writing, a lawsuit has not been officially filed, but Tim Cho said his cousin’s family plans to sue. John Burris, the Han family’s attorney, is still gathering information on the case, but has run into barriers at the coroner’s office and police department, who have not been turning over officials reports to the family, according to Cho.

In response, Hillman from the Folsom Police Department told KoreAm that the case is still active. “We’ve corresponded with the attorney, and we explained that we do not release reports that are under investigation,” he said. As for why the police accounts are so different from the family’s, Hillman said, “The family has not talked to us and has not provided a statement. We feel for [the family]. We’ve reached out to the family. We don’t know why their account is different because we don’t know what their side of the story is.”

***

Han was born in San Jose, and spent his childhood there. Later, the family moved to Folsom. Han’s mother and Cho’s mother were sisters, and their families saw each other several times a week. (Han’s parents and brother declined KoreAm’s interview requests. Similarly, Han’s girlfriend of several years, who lives in the Bay Area, would decline an interview, Cho said.)

Cho is 28 and his brother is 27. While growing up, Han looked up to his older cousins. “I definitely felt like I had a brotherly role in his life,” said Cho. “There were a lot of things that my brother and I did that Joe would pick up: hockey, guitar. We’d go to the park, the pool, played roller hockey on the street. Those were fond memories.”

The cousins also bonded during family trips. “On the car rides up, Joe would joke about taboo topics and always be the center of laughter,” recalled Cho.  ”That helped to bring our families closer together. He would talk about anything: politics, relationships, skateboarding, adventures.”

Indeed, this adventurous spirit shaped the last few years of Han’s life. He began skateboarding in high school, but eventually shifted into longboarding. This variety of skateboarding “is more about hills and bombing down them and taking turns really fast, so it’s more about speed and getting that adrenaline rush,” descibed Cho, who used to longboard with his cousin. “He was gutsy and passionate. He’d be flying down on a thing piece of wood on four little tires, going 40 miles and hour, and then at the borrom of the hill, he’d make a sharp left turn.

“It gave him a sense of freedom.”

After Han graduated from the University of California, Irvine in 2007 with a degree in criminology, he returned to Folsom. He helped his parents out at their teriyaki fast food business in Roseville. Soon, he eventually began envisioning- then creating- his own enterprise.

A demonstration for Han is being planned in front of the district attorney’s office in Sacramento, and Han’s close friends and a relative still meet every week to organize protests. On May 13, more than 150 people gathered at a demonstration, peacefully demanding justice for Han. As a nod to Han’s life and aspirations, many wore “Black Lotus Boards” T-shirts.

“He had big dreams,” said Cho. “He just never got a chance.”

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