Under a full moon, we stroll the beach to watch an incoming
tide.
Dark waves collide in frothy spumes, on their long run to the shore
As we take that first sweet embrace, his wet hair entangles mine.
A thousand years of rain, freeze and wind, crack the pocked
stone
Near sand ridges, so much older, once washed by the ancient seas.
Below the thin limestone shelf, we gather loose rocks into a wall.
Spring's ardor gives birth to blossoms, and then travels on
her way.
If only now she would acquiesce to leave her mark on me,
So once again I could look upon the face I’ve left behind.
Neca Stoller
That November 8, 1955, Donghae, after an arduous journey of almost a month, reached Portland, Oregon, the United States of America. I was so obsessed with getting connected with my Mormon friends in Utah, that I paid little attention to the official proceedings and welcome parties waiting for us at Portland upon our arrival. Our ship docked and two port officials boarded and went over our travel documents and stamped an entry permit seal on our passports, thus I was free to go ashore on the Land of Opportunity. But before I could get off the ship, the captain insisted on giving a farewell party in his dining room.
An elderly Korean American woman from Portland came aboard to welcome us on behalf of the small Korean community in Portland and offered to help us if we needed it. She was surprised to learn that we were college students, not sailors as she assumed, heading out to attend some of the best universities in America. Her little community normally dealt with homesick Korean seamen stranded in Portland and had precious little to offer to my group of spoiled kids from the rich and powerful of new Korea. Most of the Korean Americans at the time were old-timers who came to America in the final days of the Yi Dynasty, and lacking any modern skills, they eked out a miserable living, doing farm and other hard labors. It is true that some of them made it in America and became rich, but most of them were dirt poor. They were proud of the new wave of Koreans hitting the shores of America, bright young Koreans with college degrees rubbing shoulders with the elite of America made the expatriates proud and happy,
The captain had tears in his eyes when he bid us goodbye. Although, he had served the Japanese during World War II and many would have considered him a filthy traitor, to us, he was a hero who ferried us safely across the Pacific in an old, dilapidated ship, salvaged from a junkyard by a greedy dictator's wife. We promised each other to keep in touch, even though none of us knew where we would be staying and had no forwarding address in the United States. We thanked the good captain and his crew for their hospitality during the long murderous month on the seas. After that we went on our separate ways, never to meet again.
I don’t recall how, but I did arrive at the Greyhound bus station and bought a one-way ticket to Salt lake City, Utah. The ticket cost me about $40, which put a large dent on my thin pocket. My plan was to find a ride from Salt Lake City to Provo, Utah. Then what? I did not know. I figured that once I got to Provo, I could get some help from Brigham Young University. I was confident that someone would find me a place to stay and a job, so that I could be supporting myself and be on my own. Well, at least that was what I kept on telling myself to soothe down my fears of the unknown: what if I could not find a ride in Salt Lake, what if my old Mormon friends changed their mind and shunned me? What if Brigham Young lost my records? What if there was no job for me? And so on. The more I worried, the more things to worry about popped up in my tired head.
While I was killing my time waiting for my bus, an old man in filthy coat approached me and said: “Can you spare me a buck?” Being a generous guy I was, I gave him a crisp dollar bill and he went away thanking me profusely. I noticed, however, that he went to a phone booth and called someone, acting strange, glancing furtively at me, as if he was describing me to someone on the phone. He hang up and left the station and I went back to my mind games. After some 10 minutes or so, two tall guys in long coats came to me and said: “We are the FBI. Please come with us. We would like to ask you some questions”. It dawned on me that the filthy old beggar was an FBI informant and that he fingered me. I had nothing to be afraid of and showed them my passport duly stamped by the port officials less than two hours earlier that day, and I also showed them the acceptance letter from Brigham Young University. After glancing over my documents, they apologized for the inconvenience and went away after wishing me luck in America. Their words sounded hollow and I could see that they were disappointed that I was not what they hoped for and spoiled their bonus. I hope that the beggar informant did not get any FBI reward off me.
It was a bad way to start a new life in a new country, I thought, but then I put myself in the other shoe and said to myself, “Well, what did you expect? I did look like an illegal immigrant and it was natural, and quite proper, for the FBI to check me out.” The kindly ticket agent came over and said: “Hey, aren’t you going to Salt Lake? You better hurry or you will miss it. They have been waiting for you!” I thanked the man and ran to the bus dragging my luggage. The FBI nearly made me miss my ride and hurt my pride on my very first day in America, but the kind ticket agent made up for it and restored my affinity for America.
To make a long story short, I arrived at Salt Lake City and faced my next hurdle. By the time I got there, it was already dark and bitter cold. I had to find a place to stay and hopefully get some food. My cash reserve was such that I could not afford a hotel room, even the cheapest YMCA. I remembered two or three of my Mormon friends in Seoul, who lived in Salt Lake City, and they told me to look them up whenever I was in town. Well, I was in town and I had to look them up. I did not have their phone numbers or addresses. All I had was their names and I thought there would be no problem finding them on the phone book. I was wrong. To my surprise and dismay, the phone book listed pages upon pages of the names I was looking for. But in my desperation, I began to go down the list dialing one number after another, asking if they remembered me from Korea. Most of them simply hang up, believing I was a loony making crank calls.
After calling some 20 names in vain, I was about to give up and sleep at the Greyhound station, but for some reason, I decided to try one more number and Lady Lucky smiled on me this time. I found my friend, Adel Schumway. He was elated. "Is that you, Kim? I have been thinking about you a moment ago!" He told me to stay put where I was and that he was on his way to pick me up. He said I must meet his family and I was welcome to stay with him as long as I wanted. That was the first good news I had since coming to America. That was how I spent my first night in America, in the most comfortable bed, the most generous family, and the most sumptuous meal I had ever had in my long life since leaving Hamhung in 1950. My friend’s mother washed my laundry and tucked me in bed as if I were her own son. I was greatly moved and relieved that my decision to come to the United States was the right one and realized how lucky I was to be in this great nation.
However, I was anxious to move on to my final destination, Provo, Utah, some 40 to 50 miles away. Adel insisted on driving me to Provo, next day, but there was a minor hitch; Provo where? Where would I be staying? My classes would not start until January and so, I had a few weeks to kill somehow, somewhere. I told Adel that my old friend, Averd Wilson, who sent me money in Korea, might help me out. I had his address and phone number. Adel called Averd, who in fact had been expecting a call from me and, having not heard from me, he was about to drive to Salt City looking for me. Earlier that day, Averd called the Portland Port and the Greyhound station inquiring about my whereabouts. He knew that I made to America but did not know exactly where I was.
Averd and his new bride, Mary, came to Adel’s house to pick me up. While waiting for Averd’ arrival, who lived some 100 miles from Salt Lake City, Adel looked up the Koreans living in the city. There were about five Koreans at University of Utah, one of them being a noted chemistry professor, Lee, who came to America many years ago. Prof. Lee had invited several graduate students from Seoul University to study under him, and that was the entire Korean community in Utah at that time. Months later, after I settled down at Brigham Young University, I spent several happy days with Prof. Lee and his family.
Averd and his beautiful wife, Mary, arrived and Averd embraced me and we wept with joy as two battlefield comrades would do. Mary told me that all Averd talked about was the Korean Mormons, me in particular, so much so that she felt she knew us all. To my embarrassment, she grabbed me and planted a hearty kiss right on my lips, my first kiss of any kind, ever. Kissing was one of the Occidental customs I had to get used. Orientals regard kissing as a sexual act, whereas Occidentals regard it as a social greeting as well as sexual. All of the Americans I met in Korea were men and, thank God, none of them had grabbed and kissed me in Korea. I was shocked and embarrassed by Mary’s quite unexpected action, for to me, it was like having sex with her in front of Averd, but Averd grinned at me, assuring me that it was OK with him.
Adel’s mother insisted on feeding us her proprietary authentic Swedish dishes and practically blocked the door to prevent us from leaving. The women got together in the kitchen and gossiped the women things, while the men talked about the good old days in Korea. Adel’s mother prepared a full-course dinner for us and after the eating was finished, she went down in the basement and folded my laundry, packing my luggage. Seeing that I had few things to wear, she sneaked in several changes from her son’s closet, although Mary assured her that she would make sure that I had enough to wear and that she would do my laundry.
It is one of my greatest sorrows and shames that this kind lady passed away before I had the opportunity to tell her how much her hospitality meant to me. Even to day, some 50 years past since that day, tears swell up in my eyes when I remember her, remember my first night in America, and the shameful fact that I had failed to thank her properly before it was too late. I hope and pray that she forgive this ingrate from North Korea, for my mind was not clear and sound, my mind was not normal because of the years of ordeals I had suffered. Physical scars are easy to detect, but mental scars are hidden and become visible only in stress situations. Well, being mentally injured is no excuse to forget one’s kindness.
Another cardinal sin I have committed is having failed to tell Averd and Mary how much I loved them, how much I appreciated their love for me and all of the life-saving helps they gave me. It was Averd who made it possible for me to come to America. I don’t recall exactly when or where I met him for the first time in Korea. It was either at a Mormon gathering or at an army camp somewhere in the front area. I am sure that his Mormon missionary zeal had played a role in our friendship, but his friendship for me went far beyond converting a heathen into a Latter Day Saint. When he left Korea, he promised me that he would stay in touch and that he would find a way for me to come to America. At the time, I did not believe he meant what he said. I had had several Yanks promising me the same thing before and then forgetting the promises as soon as they returned home. When I was with the US Army Security Agency, I worked with and got to be close with several Japanese Americans, who swore that they would never forget me, but forgot, they did.
But not my friend, Averd Wilson, he meant what he said; as soon as he was discharged from the US Army and returned home, he began to contact his friends at Brigham Young University. After months of phone calls and letters, he got me a scholarship and a personal letter of invitation from the Physics Department chair, Prof. William Wayne, a Mormon physicist noted for his research in inertial guidance of missiles. The US embassy required a letter of invitation and a proof of financial assistance.
It was Averd who sent me $300, a huge sum of money for his rather limited asset. Mary and Averd lived on a small farm in a small farming community in Utah. He was a school teacher and also, a farmer. He raised wheat, cattle and chicken. They called an old farm building their home, an inheritance from Mary’s deceased parents. The house was huge, having about 10 rooms needing some repairs. Mary and Averd had no children at the time and they needed only a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and a washroom, the other rooms were boarded up or left unattended. Averd had a German Shepard that stayed in one of the unused rooms during cold nights, which was almost every night during that December of 1955.
Mary and Averd lived downstairs close to the kitchen that had a wood burning stove glowing day and night. The dog and I stayed upstairs. Although I grew up in a farming community, Kapsan, and my father was a landowner, I knew very little about farming. Averd showed me how American farmers did their thing. Averd and I got up in the wee hours of the morning and heaved heavy rolls of hay for the cows. The hay feeds were tied with metal strips and it took some muscle power to cut them. The hay rolls weighed 30-50 pounds each, depending on their moisture contents and I had considerable difficulty in lifting them. Another difficult task, at least for me, was fetching drinking water for the cattle. In the early hours of a morning, the cattle feeding troughs were frozen solid and we had to break up the ice with an axe.
The most difficult task of mine on Averd's farm was killing chicken for Mary’s culinary endeavors. Back in Kapsan, in the 1940s, my mother let me kill chickens for her. In those days, prior the age of refrigerators, the only means of getting fresh chicken meat was to buy chickens live or raise them in your backyard, and kill them an hour or so before you ate the poor birds. My mother took a kitchen knife and chopped the head off, forcing the poor bird to dance around headless. I thought it was a mean thing to do and set out to find a better way to dispatch a chicken. My way was to stick the sharp end of a chicken feather into the back base of its tiny head, which caused an instant and painless death. I borrowed this method from the Chinese who usually execute criminals with a shot on the base of the skull on the back.
But Averd preferred his own way of shooting the victims, with a pistol. He was a sharp shooter, hitting the target 100 percent. He let me try and I missed 100 percent, which made Averd wonder how I managed to fight the communists. For one thing, I had not done a whole lot of shooting. Although I carried weapons of all sorts, pistols, rifles, burp guns and even a Maxim heavy machine gun at various times in Korea, I had never shot at any one, and I was a lousy shot. When I was a sub teen, my father gave me a pair of German air rifles and I spent many hours trying to shoot down birds and small animals. Lucky for them, I was a poor marksman even then and missed the targets most of the time.
I made up for my poor marksmanship by cleaning and cutting up the victims for Mary’s cooking pots. Killing birds was one thing, but killing a cow was an entirely different matter. Just before Christmas, Averd wanted to butcher one of his cows for Mary’s Christmas dinner. When I was a child, I came down with Cholera right after my mother had a young cow butchered. This unpleasant memory came back and the last thing I needed was coming down with an illness in a foreign country, and I talked Averd into sending me on a less stressful errand.
It seemed that Averd and Mary knew everybody in town and my coming to their town was the biggest event there in many years. People came to see me almost every day, bringing foods, clothes, books and even cash. They would ask me about Korea and my wartime “heroics” and they wanted know what I thought of America. They were genuinely happy to meet a Korean Mormon, and I was invited to talk about my life story at church, Rotary and school meetings.
The Church found an elderly couple in Provo who wanted to adopt me. They were converts to the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints years ago in New Zealand and came to the land of Mormons. They owned a car dealership in Provo and were wealthy. Since I was too old to be adopted legally, I was to stay with them as an informal adopted son while attending Brigham Young University. Averd felt bad that he lived too far from the campus and so, I had to move out. I moved in with my adopted parents right after Christmas of 1955. To my greatest sorrow, Mary and Averd found teaching jobs in California and left Utah on a new venture, and I lost them forever. I have tried to locate them many times, in vain. I hope and pray that they know that I will always remember them and that I still miss them very much.
Byu.jpg. My first day at Brigham Young University, a hug from a Mormon child.
In 1956, I resumed my long interrupted college work at the Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah. My Mormon friends helped with funds and a job. I was adopted both literally and mentally into the Mormon family. I learned to like potsam, the Mormon coffee, the Mormon square dancing, and the Mormon society.
For the first time since June 25, 1950, I settled down to the serious business of schooling. Thanks to my newly adopted Mormon family, my mind was at peace at last and I was able to concentrate on reading books and on gaining knowledge. I was in great demand as a speaker at civic and Mormon church gatherings. I put together a slide show of Korea and engaged in a one-man propaganda war for Korea. Most folks knew very little about Korea and were fascinated by my war stories. Some women cried after hearing my life story. I am ashamed to admit that I did stretch the truth now and then to get more sympathy and attention.
In October 1956, I was hired as a janitor at the Brigham Young University and moved into a basement apartment in Provo, Utah. I shared the apartment with a fellow Korean, Mr. Sung from Seoul, Korea, and six American guys. There were five Koreans, three males and two coeds, at BYU at the time. Our tiny Korean community was close and we met almost every day for comfort and shared homemade Korean meals.
On December10, 1956, my education was temporarily put on hold. I was trying to move a piano when it fell on my right foot and smashed it badly. A fellow janitor heard the noise and rushed to my rescue. He called in others for help and they lifted the heavy piano off me and saw that my right foot was a mess of broken bones and blood. They called an ambulance and carried me out. I was out cold from the shock. My surgeon, Dr. Kazarian, wanted to save as much of my right foot as possible, which meant that I had to endure much pain and agony while my swollen mangled foot settled down a little.
The good doctor had my foot raised with a sling. I could see the broken bones sticking out and some dark gangrene spreading. I watched the intense war between the gangrene and penicillin. Thanks to my surgeon, the good guys won and Dr. Kazarian was able to fix up my foot. He skillfully filled in the rotten flesh of my foot with what remained of my toe. Thanks to this gifted doctor, I ended up losing only two toes – my foot was saved and I could walk normal again. I am eternally indebted to that Mormon. It was ironic that after having survived World War II and the Korean War without a scratch, I should end up losing part of my foot in America! I very much regret that I have been unable to thank my nurses, doctors and friends who have save my foot.
I was bedridden for over a month and the worst part of this ordeal was using a bedpan. When I was a kid growing up in Kapsan, we had an outhouse, which was attached to the house but had no heating or lighting, but during the darkness of night or when it was sub-zero, we used a chamber pot, shaped like a French bidet. The American bedpan is designed for bed bound souls and I had a great difficulty using one. Since my right leg was hung up like a ham from a pole, I could not get up to go to bathroom, in fact I could not even sit up or turn on my side. When I had to go, I had to have a nurse stick a bedpan under my butt and when I was done, she would wipe me rear end and hand me a wash cloth to clean my privates myself. Of course, the nurse and anyone close by could see everything of me. This was quite embarrassing and so, I held things in as long as I could, which led to constipation, which in turn shattered my nerves and made me jumpy and cranky.
After a few episodes of constipation-induced nervous breakdowns, my doctor prescribed weekly enema, which was something out of this world, something the South Korean police torturers should learn about. When the much dreaded time came for an enema, a nurse brought in a pan of soap water and a huge tubing that had a tip shaped like a canine penis. Since I could not turn over on my side on account of my right leg being tied up, she made me arch my body so that she could stick her ice-cold tube deep into my intestines. She pumped gallons of soap water or whatever liquid she had in her pan. The worst was yet to come. After and even during the injection, my body wanted to expel the nasty liquid, but I had to hold down the urge because I was told not to and also, there was no bedpan in my bed and soiling up my bed was the last thing I wanted to do. Holding back a flood of foul waste with a thin layer of skin on the butt requires super human will and effort. It was an open and shut case of inhuman torture and gross violation of my human rights. After an eternity and when I was about pass out, the nurse would bring my bed pan laughing as if the whole thing was some kind of a game. Even today, I get edge and nasty when I am constipated. I don't use enema.
I have many happy memories of Brigham Young University and the Mormons. When I was incapacitated in a hospital bed, I had a number of Mormon nurses paying extra attention and helping in many ways over and above the call of their duty, one of these was an Native Indian woman and I fell madly in love with her. The first time I saw her, I was sure that she was a Korean and started jabbering in Korean. She shaved and washed me, putting up with my juvenile shenanigans. Often my mind went out on long journeys under the influence of the morphine administered to kill the excruciating pain. My mind wondered back to my childhood and I screamed, laughed and cried in delirium. There were times when my doctor was more concerned about my mental health than my rotting foot, and he decided that I needed some motherly attention and prescribed some moments with my head nurse. On certain days, she took me to her apartment she shared with her husband, and gave me much emotional support which I so desperately needed. It was refreshing to get out of my hospital bed and see the outside world.
My smashed foot brought me a gift, totally unexpected. Since my accident occurred while I was working for the university, the Workmen Compensation stepped in and paid all of my medical bills and $500 in cash for me! Until that time, I had never heard of the Workmen Comp and reckoned that I had to pay the bills myself somehow. I was discharged from the hospital with a fat check in my pocket, and not a penny owed to the hospital. There was another good tiding waiting for me. A fellow Korean Mormon, Kwak, from Seoul was adopted by a Mormon medical doctor in Salt Lake City. Kwak learned of my plight and arranged for me to stay with him at his adopted home until I had fully recovered to resume my interrupted schooling.
I gladly accepted Kwak's kind offer and stayed with him for several days. My right foot was still swollen and I had to use clutches to get around, and Kwak's father, a friend of my surgeon, changed the bandages daily and gave me anti-biotic shots and pain pills. The doctor's wife was an excellent cook and cared for us as if we were her own. She was unusually beautiful and caring, bubbling with happy enthusiasm. The only complaint I had of her was her non-stop yakking. She would butt in whatever conversation Kwak and I were having and wanted to know what we were talking about. Kwak attempted to teach her how to make kimchi, but she was allergic to garlic and backed away.
Because of my bad foot, I could not go back to my janitorial duty and Prof. Wayne gave me a research assistantship in his laboratory. He and his son, also a professor of physics, had a grant from the US Army to develop an improved inertial guidance system for inter-continental ballistic missiles. My job was to baby-sit various measuring devices and change recording tapes when needed. It was an easy job and did not require any hard labor. It did not pay much, but it was ideal for a cripple recovering from a long hospital stay. I took several physics classes from Prof. Wayne and his son. They went out of their way to help me with home works. Even though I was a physics junior at Seoul National University and was accepted as such by Brigham Young, my physics and math background was substandard and I had to study very hard to catch up, and catch up, I did.
One of the courses I liked best at BYU was one on the archeology of the Native Indians, the ancient Inca and Maya civilizations. Mormons believe that Jesus Christ came to America and that America was inhabited by two groups of people, one good and the other bad, and the bad prevailed and exterminated the good. Mormon scholars wanted to find scientific evidence for their claims, and digging at the Inca and Mayan ruins was one way to find the evidence. My archeology professor had been at it for more than 30 years and written several books and countless academic papers on the subject. I was particularly interested in the Oriental features of the Native Indian civilizations.
It was June 1957 that I received my BS in Physics at Brigham Young University and I moved to Purdue University at West Lafayette, Indiana, for my Ph.D. study in nuclear physics. I accompanied a Korean friend going to Indiana from Salt Lake City. I shared the gas and food expenses. It was much cheaper than other means of transportation. There were some 30 South Koreans studying at Purdue. Prof. Choe of Seoul National University’s Chemistry Department had studied at Purdue a few years earlier and he sent his graduate students here for Ph.D. studies. In addition, Purdue had a sister relation with the South Korean military academy and scores of Korean cadets studied civil and electric engineering at Purdue.
Figure purdue.jpg: Korean graduate students at Purdue University. I am 1st from left on the back row.
One fallout from the Korean War was that America opened its door wide for Korean students and orphans. Many colleges and universities offered scholarships to Koreans. Many Americans adopted Korean orphans. In addition, the South Korean Military Academy sent its top students here for advanced degrees. Soon the Koreans began to flood America.
In 1961, I had the honor of rooming with Jung Won and Choe Kyu Whan. Dr. Won became director of the Korean National Bureau of Standards and Dr. Choe to became president of a large university in Korea. I actively participated in the Mormon Church in West Lafayette and enjoyed close relations with many wonderful American Mormons, Prof. Philip Lowe and his wife, Mayda, cared for me as if I were their own son. The Lowes had three gorgeous daughters and a son, and I spent many happy hours playing with them and watching them grow into adulthood. We went to the Michigan Lake for picnics and .swimming, to church socials and dancing, and Sunday services, always together as a family.
The Workmen Comp money I received for my mangled foot in Utah made me "rich" and I bought a tape recorder with the money. Mayda played violin superbly and I recorded hours of her violin solos for her, and we used to listen to her music for long hours. I don't know why but she deeply cared for me and she would have anything for me, and of course, I ;loved her as if she were my own mother. She helped me stay sane when the going got rough, when my research work got stuck, when I had personal problems and when I was down; she was always there to give me support and comfort.
Figure purdue1.jpg: From left, Prof. Choe, a Korean soprano, I and Jung Won at Purdue in 1961.
On June 5, 1962, I received Ph.D. in nuclear physics from Purdue University and accepted assistant professorship of Physics at the Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio. My starting salary was $700 per month, which was the average pay for brand-new Ph.D.s in physics in those days. I bought an old junk and loaded up my meager belongings and drove to Columbus, Ohio. Once again, I was forced to bid adieu to my friends and beloved, but the show must go on. After so many years of schooling, I had finally reached the zenith and I was eager to reap the "bounties" of a Ph.D. in nuclear physics. I became a US citizen and obtained Atomic Energy Commission security clearance. Now I had all the paper credentials and I was ready to hit the road of academic adventure in America.
Jung Won, my roommate at Purdue, received his Ph.D. in solid state physics soon after I left Purdue. He graduated from Seoul University at the top of his class and received the Presidential citation. He married his school-day sweet heart. After graduation, he went to work at the Bell Laboratory for several years and went back to Korea. He headed the Government Bureau of Standards for many years until his premature death in the 1980s. Jung and I kept in touch until his death.
ysk65.jpg. The author in 1965, associate professor of physics, Ohio State University.
I met many fine people in Columbus and made many friends. One of my best friends at Ohio State University was Prof. James Reibel, a Jew from New York. He and I worked on joint research projects for many years and we became close friends and colleagues. In those days, I knew next to nothing about the Jewish culture. Once, I invited him over for dinner and I served him ham, because it was already cooked and ready to be eaten. I noticed that he did not touch my ham and figured that it was because he did not care about my cooking. Years later I learned that some Jews do not eat ham.
Once I entered the world of academia, I found myself in the proverbial rat race and things began to move fast. Like a squirrel on a turning wheel, I could not stop and had to keep on moving. There was always something I had to do and do it fast, and as soon as I got there, there would another awaiting for me. The years went by fast and many events occurred in my life. I was a research faculty member and spent much of my time working for the US Atomic Energy Commission. I worked at the Argonne National Laboratory as Visiting Scientist for some 10 years. I also worked at the Brookhaven National Laboratory, CERN, Switzerland, and Rutherford Laboratory in England.
Figure argonne.jpg. The Argonne National Laboratory of the Atomic Energy Commission was one of the nuclear weapons development sites. I worked there for 15 years as a visiting scientist.
Meanwhile, I had two marriages and sired seven children, three boys and four girls, from the two marriages. Raising seven children on a professor's salary became harder and harder, as the kids grew up; more medical bills, dental bills, cars for the kids, dresses for the teenage girls, bigger houses and cars. After some 17 years of academic rat race, "publish or perish", I lost much of my academic zeal and decided to jump into the world of business. I had to make money for my kids.
kpc.jpg. Kim Petroleum Computers, Inc. staff members at an IBM computer show. I am at far right.
I resigned from Ohio State University in 1980, cashing in my retirement fund of $20,000, and started a computer company. Kim Petroleum Computers, Inc. with the retirement fund. I set up an office in my basement and installed a Burroughs mainframe. I developed software for oil and gas producers. In the 1980s, crude oil and natural gas were in great demand on account of the Arab oil embargo and oil wells sprang up all over the United States. There was money to be made from digging holes in the ground, many oilmen struck gushers and became rich. Many others jumped in the oil business and soon there was a huge market for oil and gas software.
In five years, my company signed up over 400 oil and gas companies, and money flowed in like water. But the flow did not last long. The Arabs lifted the embargo and all of crude oil that accumulated during the embargo hit the US market in a gigantic rush. Oil price crashed and the domestic oil industry collapsed overnight. I lost most of clients and my revenues dried up, and I went bankrupt, completing the cycle. I started out with nothing and ended up deep in a hole.
My life after is a long story for another time and place. I have no regret. I have been to the summit and to the deepest abyss, but there is no abyss so deep that one cannot climb out of and reach another mountain top, taller than the previous. Reaching one's goal in spite of failures and obstacles is what makes life worth living.
What about the Korean nationalist in me? I was but 20 years old when I left my ravaged country, but I know that within me, the cultural coding nurtured in myself, as in all people, is still there, filtering all sights, sounds and thoughts. And while I have not been present on the soil of my homeland in nearly five decades, I have had non-stop relationships with and knowledge of Koreans and their stories as they have arrived in America.