I lived my first three years in Korea, in my grandfather’s house in Seoul, before we moved to Truk, Hawaii, Guam, then Maine. My mother tells me that the first written words I ever read aloud were “Obi Mechu”, the Korean version of, if your American child looked up at you and said, “Schlitz Beer.” I was on her lap, looking over her shoulder at billboards as we drove through Seoul

My family arrived in New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport in July of 1973, and like most immigrant families, with little money, few personal belongings and the hope for a brighter future.